


I Don't Want To Rest In Peace (I'd Rather Be The Ghost That Annoys You)

by schmaslow



Category: Big Time Rush (TV), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: 1950s slurs, Bisexuality, Closeted, Crucifixion, Existential Crisis, F/M, Fallout: New Vegas AU, Ideology, M/M, Military Homophobia, Politics, Post-Apocalypse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Robots, The Road quotes, War Never Changes, a cyborg dog, a lot of military talk and strategy stuff, abuse of fictional in-game drugs, battle of ideologies, governments doing bad government things, implied/referenced non-con/dubious con, kendall is stubborn and james is secretive, my characters are as indecisive as i am, overused stage performance analogies, really unsafe sexual encounters, retrofuturism, romanticized cigarette use, sin city baby, too many gambling terms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-09
Updated: 2017-12-06
Packaged: 2018-07-22 10:29:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 54,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7432904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schmaslow/pseuds/schmaslow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James breathes out from beside him; Kendall watches, tilts his head as the faintest contour of smoke slinks twiny from his lips. Watches him decide, “It’s pointless.” Words of history spoken on a cloud of toxins, a memory embracing fumes. Ghosts that shift disturbed.</p>
<p>Kendall’s eyes fall from them, down to the crude designs on James’ torso.</p>
<p>“Isn’t all of it?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [skyline](https://archiveofourown.org/users/skyline/gifts).



> (I was gonna post this when I was finished, however, my new job has me swamped and I wanted to get this out here. Seriously? It's been three years since I started it, abandoned it, came back, and wrote 11 chapters, all to slip again.)
> 
> This is one of those originally-was-gonna-be-a-one-shot...things. More a three-shot. Starts out a bit that way too, chapters 1-3 could be on its own. If you don't care about the future (gasp). I just. Fucking love post-apocalypse. And Fallout (the video game series). Like I said in my art post for this fic, morphing together two of what I have most shoved up my ass seemed right. Very right. And, as I also mentioned, James would look amazing in apocalyptic leather armor, and he's the perfect "Courier Six." With the FNV character Major Knight sharing a surname with Kendall, it all fell into place. Oh, fate, oh, fate.
> 
> Now, I know, you may be saying, "Fallout? Huh!?" And that's okay (it's not). I've created a cheat sheet for your convenience if you goshdarnit can't stand reading descriptions for crazy shit in alternate universes you've never heard of. But, what I very, very much recommend instead/in addition, is watching the Fallout: New Vegas intro clip before you start. It'll fit great, you'll see a bit more, bada-bing-bada-boom. I'm happy, you're happy, I'm confused, you're confused, it's all good. So stop reading this and get on with reading your favorite pairing going at it (un-hygienically) 200 years after nuclear war while a bunch of whiny groups whine over territory and politics. As people suffer. And eat odd things. For survival. Awwwwww.
> 
> Intro Video: [Here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xSwS0mRGOXk)  
> Cheat Sheet: [Here](http://imgur.com/gallery/f8aga)  
> Art: [Here](http://archiveofourown.org/series/423370)
> 
> Welcome to New Vegas. Enjoy your stay.

 

 

* * *

_And somewhere two hunted animals trembling like ground-foxes in their cover. Borrowed time and borrowed world and borrowed eyes with which to sorrow it._

* * *

 

Kendall likes to pretend he doesn’t hear it.

The crack of a bullet, that stray shot- not even all that stray. _Cyclical_. Echoing a mile off.

That it doesn’t stick out over the crunch of passing boots beyond the thinned walls of the Outpost’s headquarters. The rustle of excessive documentation and the harsh click of a terminal in the back.

Not anymore.

But it’s still almost as loud as the graphite that snaps, a jolt beneath his hand. The one that makes his teeth grind, eyes to the veiny-fractures of the ceiling.

He _tries_ for the calm thing. He does. A slow breath in, a slow breath out.

Ends with him splintering the piece of wood in two, flinging them across the counter. A silent clatter against the backdrop noise of the wind picking up, a groaning force that quakes the roof.

The Mojave knew how to slice into bone when it wanted to.

And that should be an uninvited reminder he has it pretty easy at the moment, considering. But _this_ …

Even if it beat patrolling by, god, a lot times three. Even if that. The paperwork here? Fucking tragic.

Being stationed at the border defined itself as a never-ending loop of administration and red tape. Dealing with caravans and supply. Watching news no one wanted to hear sent West.

Yeah. It’s impossible to forget the world outside this place, but sometimes he thinks he could. Forget what it looks like, forget it doesn’t all resemble the crinkled smear of ink on paper.

Faded markings of _11.02.2281_ and-

Location numbers, caravan identifiers, depleting digits, _requests to_ -

Over, and over. And over.

That date, though. The few minutes he gets to forget what _it_ is:

godsend.

Until he has to write it down and remember all over again. Like he actually _wanted_ to know how many _days months years_ it’s been since this campaign started. Track how long he’s been standing behind this desk, repairing Cowboy Repeaters or faulty 9mms between stacks of that yellowed paper.

Track how long it’s been since he’s seen his mom or Katie.

He hasn’t figured out yet, if it slows time or speeds it up. A clock ticking, dragging on, or counting down. An hourglass out of sand.

Maybe he should be glad for once, then, the Mojave was made of nothing but.

Only, no amount of sand could save how behind he was on his work.

And Kendall has a sigh for that, dropping his face into his hands, propped on the blankets of dust in front of him. Fingers digging under the rim of his beret, at his temples. Sweat stinging his eyes.

Things like that, he’s not _suppose_ to focus on. _Can’t_ focus on. How close it was to being sunset or- the way his uniform was sticking to him, a rough second skin, fire trapped beneath stained cloth. How every tendon of every muscle strains when he shifts. The churn of murky water in his stomach bumping the ghost of whatever-centuries-old-MRE he’d grabbed from the barracks last night.

It just. Felt so cliché. The urge to run back home mixed in there with a lungful of grime, of decay and musty air, thoughts of still blank inventory and distribution forms.

Not that Goodsprings was somewhere most people went running _towards_.

No, not when you were lucky enough to get out.

Springing to enlist with the NCR at the overenthusiastic age of eighteen wasn’t about _getting out_ , though. More an opportunity to- to do something that wasn’t watching everyone he cared about dig their own graves. A lifetime of nothing but dirt piling up behind them, blood embedded between grain.

And he got that, somewhere along the line, he started to hold too tight to the notion of needing to protect everyone. Had it carved deep and crude into the curves of his ribs. Sure it read like braille.

In Goodsprings, Nevada, the worst case scenario used to be a Fire Gecko wandering too close; he’d learned by the age of ten how to handle those with nothing but a Varmint Rifle.

But that was _before_ the New California Republic.

Before politics and government and territory, rule of the Wastes.

Or the threat of Caesar's Legion.

Before he understood what all of it meant.

Which wasn’t much. That he can recall, he means.

Seven years of fire and brimstone could do that. Twist your memories into a weapon.

But- if anything, it only led to the catalyst of where his boots were planted now, death-slicked and worn.

Where he tenses at the door of the Headquarters banging open. Every time. Hinges protesting.

Kendall doesn’t judge. He wants to protest, too, peeking up to find this newcomer isn’t just another soldier trying to escape that wind.

See, folks who come to the front desk never disappoint in _impressively_ wasting his time. Knowing that? Doesn’t bar him from noticing, though, alright?

A single eyebrow raises. The Mojave’s signature brand of dirt and speckle of dried blood not doing a whole lot to obscure how New Guy belonged back in pre-War days.

Like one of those overly cheerful, painful-looking smiles that scowl up at you from torn pages of the Old World, glare down from peeling billboards that line what was left of the roads. _That_.

He eyes the Pip-Boy on the guy’s arm, whirring silent.

Offhands, “Caravan, citizen, pilgrim? None of the above?” Protocol. Honestly. The highlight of his fucking day.

Mister Pre-War squints at him. All eyelashes. Dubs, “Courier.”

And Kendall has to scribble that down on a clipboard with another old stump of a pencil. Glancing bitter at the two-halves of the one lost in battle.

“Something for the log,” voice rusted. Explains, obligational, as if anyone has _ever_ wondered, “Tabs on who comes in and out of the Outpost.”

Just, mostly _in_.

Because apparently the Outpost wasn’t congested enough _without_ help from a herd of nagging merchants and rotting brahmin.

He scratches at the side of his jaw, filing off paperwork while he absently offers his memorized little speech of, “The commanding officer’s in the back if you need him, just- keep it short. Any gear you need checked,” a tilt his head, way of the left wall, “leave it there. I can get it back to you by-” trails off when he catches Courier’s face.

This intimation of a simper.

Kendall is purely question marks and lack of sleep. Watches suspect and warning as a body leans closer, as arms set up camp on his already crowded desk…-counter-thing.

Lips stretch wider, cocksure.

“You didn’t tell me your name.”

And Kendall blinks, twice. Wavers as he takes in how the guy hovers over him, beating him in height, barely.

“Uh, it - it’s Knight. Major Kendall Knight.” Words clipped. Pronounced, because “…I don’t know if you’re from around here-” darting eyes around the office, down an empty hallway of pale tile and broken equipment, he says careful, “but you shouldn’t- it’s not a great idea to do that.” An implication that makes his fingers curl, nails biting into palms.

“Do what?” is returned at it, tone facetious, “Ask your name?”

“Get too friendly,” he amends, charged, skin too-tight up against an intense nonchalance that burns hazel and juniper green. Something about it pushing down the _it’s-not-you-it’s-me_ ’s or how out West it was _different_ -

How if anyone here found out-

Courier Guy tucks a fist under his chin, a quirk to his eyebrow, “So you… _don’t_ wanna be friends?”

Makes Kendall’s jaw clench, steel lining his insides at sleek edges and angles in front of his face. Veers dismissive, “Funny-”

“Thank you.”

“-now can I _help_ you with something?” stresses, “ _Else_.”

Stares at an expression that morphs like cardboard. If it was made of liquid. “Oh- yeah, actually,” quipped, a glow beneath flickering fluorescents that _tap, clink, tap_.

“Oh- _great_ ,” he matches, presses, “What?”

And those eyes look off over the compact layout of HQ, flit over ragged NCR propa-posters threatening to curl off crumbling walls. A hum, “What can you tell me about Primm?”

“… _Primm_?” his brow furrowing, “Just that it’s not exactly worth the trip. Area’s been having a lot of trouble with convicts from the NCRCF,” considers, “why?”

Courier sighs, overburdened or whatever, begins fiddling with a spare rifle part beside him, _too_ casual, “Guy from the correctional facility needs a pardon, so he can replace the town’s Sheriff.”

Right. Kendall attempts to process that, _honest_ , but, “Sorry,” he balks, caustic; a dare, “for a second there I thought you were implying I should put a _Powder Ganger_ in an official capacity.”

For a smile flashed at him, then, stiff and shiny. He thinks of those billboards again. “Guess you think pretty good then.”

_Guess you don’t._

“Are you blitzed?” He snipes, withering, even though he’s a good degree certain Megastar here’s never wrangled with a chem in his life, “Was it the _convicts_ bit that got past you?”

And an eye roll replaces that Old World smile, like Kendall’s argument of _they’re fucking convicts_ isn’t good enough for the guy, like this was all _expected_. As it _should_ have been _._ Kendall shakes his head, disbelief, “Give me one reason-”

But he’s not really asking, because there is absolutely nothing this obviously-a-dumbass could say that would convince him to put some dynamite-waving prisoner escapee in charge of _protecting a town_. Yah know, _instead_ of blowing it up?

What a prospect.

“Look,” declares Courier Guy, deliberate. Act dropping like a curtain. Sort of. “His sentence was almost up,” and Kendall spies that slight curl of his lip, the challenge: “‘Not like _NCR_ is rushing in to save the day.”

And Kendall pauses, wary at that, how the federation spits off of a stranger’s tongue.

The only insult he will ever take without using his mouth before his head.

“I understand where you’re coming from- I do. But expecting us to be able to take on _every_ little problem out there, especially with how things are right now-” practically recites, “Get that NCR only has so many boots on the ground, and we’ve been instructed to maintain a minimum headcount here-”

“No, no, you’re right,” cuts in, flippant, “being holed up in the ass end of nowhere writing shit on paper and _babysitting caravans_ is _so_ important. _Sorry-_ ”

“It’s called _following orders_ ,” he grits. Defending over the thermic clench in his abdomen, syllables blocky and all-wrong in his mouth, “This post is on the front lines if Legion decides to push West through-”

“ _Sure_ , sure. Fighting the good fight and _rah rah rah_ ,” brushing him off sardonic, _rude_ , “I’ll keep in mind you like taking orders, soldier boy,” with that _smirk_ , “In the meantime, repair these for me, will you?”

Kendall glowers, vexation. Bites, “Yeah, yeah. ‘Be my pleasure, _sir_.” _Definitely_ no need to worry about him _sabotaging your equipment_ , asshole.

 And, between the pauldrons of leather armor and a weathered pistol landing on his desk, “James,” is stated, reflex. Distracted.

“What?”

“It’s James,” repeats, an allusory glance cast, mouth curved, as gear and straps are adjusted, “I don’t mind giving out my name around here.”

Kendall says nothing.

_James_ taps at the scuffed barrel of the 10mm, announces, “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

A grunted “Fantastic,” drowned by the door’s woody groan and slammed closing, lets Kendall breathe.

Shutting his eyes against the sounds of the Outpost returning. Like they’d retreated in that guy’s presence.

A fucking courier.

A fucking courier, who still needs to learn a sharp-mouth isn’t the best weapon of choice in the Wastes. One, who managed to bring up at least two things Kendall, also, _likes to pretend_ he doesn’t think about. Because he knows better. Knows it’s useless to.

It’s not like this was the first time someone’s sung NCR’s shortcomings. But it never failed to slip under his skin. Flash images vivid and chaotic behind his eyelids.

In the end, though…

He runs a hand down his face, the chafey roll of dirt coming off on his palm.

James.

Was just like he said. Waste of time.

And, god, he still had so much work to do.

* * *

Kendall can’t stand the Mojave sun. Glaring down from the middle of the sky.

He can’t stand the way it claws into everything, a tearing heat you can’t escape even inside, where it dances off cracked windows, a kaleidoscope of festering geometrics. He can’t stand the beams across tables, chairs, the rough surface of armor, showcasing the mass of debris and rot in the air. Steam rising.

Sometimes he swears he can hear it hiss. Respire menacing while it creeps sluggish along the ground, reaching. Claiming the world absolute, golden white.

But he really, really, can’t stand the way it strikes across James’ profile, technicolors it stark against the outline of ravaged mountain and the wispy-blue of clouds. It’s a ridiculous scene Kendall has to walk up on, wood of the rickety incline to their make-do snipers’ nest atop the barracks building, creaking beneath his boots.

A scene that speaks the tail-end of a conversation, the Ranger James is standing opposite of delivering her outro.

“-could spare the troops to go hunting, but. Orders to stay put,” with a huff, shaded disgust, “Fucking Mojave’s going to hell. All I can do is sit here and watch.”

Which, is a line Kendall disagrees with, only because he wholeheartedly believes the Mojave is already long built-upon the rufous brickwork of the Inferno itself.

The Mojave going to hell? Redundancy.

It is also a line James doesn’t respond to, when Kendall carries out his unscripted entrance. Instead, he lights up more radiant than the sun Kendall hates so fucking much. The gleam in his eye alone a personal stab at Kendall’s character. Doesn’t need the excess roll call of “Soldier boy!”

And if Kendall feels bad for blatantly _ignoring_ him, it’s cancelled out by an abrasive malaise that settles into the hollow crannies of his chest. He addresses Ghost, the simple explanation of “Your supply quota,” presenting a scrawly sheet of basically-disappointment.

“Well beat me daddy eight to the bar,” she mumbles, bone-complexion lucent. Barely spares it a glance from behind her shades, a scowl below. _That_ , Kendall can agree with. Louder, “What do I get, a whole bottle of water this month? Two counts of mac’ next year if I’m lucky?”

Kendall snorts, sour and apologetic, “Close.”

“Ah, forget it. Not gonna shoot the messenger, Knight. Thanks for bringing this up.”

A cue for him to nod a, “Ma’am.” Turn on his heel.

The perception that he could actually just walk away immediately and thoroughly ruined- James giving Ghost a mock salute. Clamboring to catch up to Kendall down the ramp, across the arid earth until he’s fallen into step beside him.

A hand clasping down on his shoulder he flinches at. “Where are your _manners_ , little trooper-”

_His_ manners? Christ-

“What was that about?” Interrupts, terse, a go at using his curiosity to ward off James’ jeering chatter.

And a beat. “What about?”

“That. With Ghost. What was it about?” Voice official. Impersonal. Accentuates how he maneuvers out of James’ grip.

 James, who grants an acknowledgment in his throat. Says, “She wanted me to check on that whore of a town, east of here; Nipton,” and he breathes this _laugh_ , some stilted unaffection, arm dropping back to his side, “Yeah, Legion turned that sinkhole into a graveyard.”

 Weights Kendall’s feet beneath him with that, a fumbled halt. Ice in the mapping of his veins, gunmetal lungs.

 “ _Legion_.” Makes him shake his head, small. “That’s not- there’s no way.” Almost a desperate beg for refutation where he knows there is none.

Affirmed as James spins, pins him with levity, “Might try telling that to the Powder Gangers hanging out on crosses over there. Or residents turned Legion _pup chow_ \- or would chew toy be a better-”

But Kendall is already spitting a curse.

Dwelling on _Nipton_. How that was too-

God, fucking _miles_ from the Colorado. How it didn’t make _sense_.

You know. Other than how it did. Of course they’d breach territory, be able gain so much ground. _Of course_ -

Because when they inevitably pass the Outpost, when they pass _Primm_ -

James continues despite Kendall’s internal hysteria, the dread that’s lurching the empty of his stomach, “Sorry to be the bearer of bad news,” not sounding it, “Had a lot of friends there?”

Kendall scoffs, tongue digging at the back of his teeth. “No one had _friends_ in Nipton.”

Not the type of friends you wanted, anyway. But that wasn’t the _point_.

James is aware of that. Clearly. Aware of the type of people Nipton is- was- made up of. Who they were. His bearing derisive. Rubs it further with the salt of, “Hookers, then?”

And Kendall bores into him for it.

“You think this is a joke?”

It comes out more an accusation than a question. Admittedly, he’s not too staggered watching the display of James raising his eyebrows over a flat stare, answering easy.

“ _Yikes_ \- is that how it came across? I meant for it to seem like I thought _all of you_ were a joke.”

But _that_ -

“Unbelievable.” He intones, cheek between his teeth. Tries to resume the short trek to the Headquarters, because, James’ angle is obvious. And this? Was going nowhere. Letting James get to him would be idiotic.

And Kendall?

Is without a doubt, utterly, _unreservedly_ idiotic.

Doesn’t even hesitate to round back at, “Alright well, if you ever need help removing that stick NCR has shoved up your _ass-_ ”

Short-lived shock at the proximity of James’ face to his, indignancy and hubris a precarious hybrid of a thing at the mercy of a heady musk, of beads of sweat on overly sun-touched skin, “What the hell is your _problem-_ ”

“You realize you’re nothing but a dignified _dog_ , right?” Snapping over him.

“And you’re nothing but a glorified package-carrier!” He fires, an amplified counter hooking the attention of a few caravanners and soldiers, tuned into his less-than-leveled, “Explain something to me- go ahead, fill me in on what makes you so goddamn special. You think you’re better than anyone else here? That the Wasteland is fortunate enough just to have you walk through it? Because, hey _, it’s not_. The Mojave doesn’t need you, _James_ , so if the fate of it is such an _inconvenience_ , feel free to head back wherever the fuck you came from.”

And he refuses to wince at that, the brutal serration of those remarks. Spilt too freely and unchecked. Compunction wasn’t due, _okay_?

Especially considering the message fails to hit its target. Considering the barbed scorn of “Wow, you know what? You got me,” the tint of condescension in, “How could _I_ , the Architect of Doom, Bringer of Sorrow and Destroyer of All That Is Pure, compete with _you_ , the almighty Restorer of Faith. Grant me forgiveness O’ Exemplar, I _beg_.”

“Blow me, _jackass_.”

Met with the laugh that burrows into his bones, resonation. A ring that lingers. Slinks into breathy ribald and ridicule, “Gosh- _can I_? I’d just love to get my lips around your _selfless dick_.”

And _maybe_ it’s how blazoned irritation flares crimson and Mojave, desert-baked, behind his breastplate; how it steals lower. Infects into the rock-bottom of his torso.

Doesn’t quite grasp why he gives- or even _allows_ , “Yeah? Get back to me when you’re worth it, pal.” More hushed, mirrored contempt-and-dagger.

Doesn’t quite grasp how horrifically he would come to eat those words, either.

If he had?

Hell, he would’ve retreated much, _much_ faster back to Headquarters.

* * *

Kendall decides that whether that fucking date below his fingers slows down time or speeds it up, doesn’t matter.

Who cares what the tempo of the days beating past was, when, indefinitely, nothing would change. A month, a year, decade, _century_.

No, alright, just, who cares when it _felt_ that way.

_Who cares_ if the numerical behind his eyes could tick off the weeks it’s been since James’ back faded into the shimmery scorch of the Mojave. Who cares, because any swipe of a different color in the _bluegreyblue_ mold of the Headquarters, in the reflective _orangebrown_ of this broken-down saddle of the desert-

Sticks out. Clear-cut and distinct. Loiters clingy.

Sometimes it was hard not to be grateful for that tedium, the vapidity of it, though.

At least it meant you lived to see another sunrise-sunset. Kind of.

Assuming you counted this as being alive.

And that right there, reasons why people cling so firm to the radio.

There’s one that sits in HQ, behind him, another in the barracks, another that gets toted around outside. All chiming and crackling the charm of Mr. New Vegas. Endless. And just like everywhere else, people adhere to those tinny affrications.

Holding their breath for good news, bad news. Something to give a shit about. Whatever.

As if looting legends to whisper, boasted opinions that convey trivial, will keep the Wastes from devouring them.

Kendall thinks, it’s only good to explain why, like, a quarter of the Mojave falls so fast for this new silhouette of a person.

A downward, unquestioning spiral of devotion and baited tales.

Fame is fleeting: is the very lone proverb he spares on the whole tabacle.

A sentiment not shared, regardless, with one of NCR’s politico-Suits: Crocker, Ambassador Extraordinary of Pacifism and Let’s-Talk-This-Out, who ends up dragging the shitstorm to relevancy.

And, listen, as much as anything “Department of State” leaves a bad taste in his mouth…

War was strategy and power, yeah. But it was also luck. Lady Luck.

NCR needed to place bets on the board if they wanted to keep in bed with her, to collect their winnings in New Vegas. All or nothing.

Sometimes, even on a gambit.

That’s what Kendall had gotten from this, anyway. NCR’s newfound interest in some friend-of-the-people who’s, so far, recruited all the right rep in all the right places.

Again: a gambit. Because people never made a name for themselves like that out of the goodness of their fucking _hearts_.

No. Payment was always due.

Just. A payment NCR is willing to tender in the midst of a failing, uncertain campaign.

Dedication was dedication, and support was support. Right? Motivation be fucked.

Especially for an ante of influence that upped at a wild rate, expanded from harmless tidbits to-

To the morning he’s walking from his bunk, dawn having just shattered the jagged fringe of canyon that rips the horizon. Past Lacey, who’s shoving off some moron of a recruit who thought it’d be an idea to proposition the bartender. Radio broadcasting over her hell-bent words of _limp-dick brahmin-fucker_ as Kendall palms the if-you-can-even-call-it-sleep from his eyes:

“ _-other news,_ _Tops hotel owner Benny has been killed by an unidentified assailant. His former right-hand man, Swank, consoles mourners-_ ”

To that. Which at any other time would mean next to nothing.

Kendall’s heard enough, about how many people on the Strip, and otherwise, would have loved to’ve been the one to dye Benny’s checkered suit a different color.

But he’s also heard enough to know every single one of those people lost their chance.

No one needed NCR’s robust network of informants to figure out, to instantly claim that this was the act of “their Joe Doe.”

See, Benny had _bodyguards_ , man. A casino-full of witnesses, loyal cronies, and half of New Vegas with eyes on his gaudy-patterned ass. To slip through the cracks of that…

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to try and gain an allegiance. If not just to prevent gaining an enemy, so…persuasive? Renowned? Efficient?

Didn’t put Kendall At Ease, but, at least, Crocker was only asking to discuss a business proposal with them. Mercenary work. To prove themselves, first.

So that deal going smooth would be- it would be good. Or at least not…totally awful.

And Not Totally Awful was, unfortunately, a _pretty_ fucking decent goal of an outlook on the upcoming Second Battle.

He refused to let it give him hope, though.

Hope… Hope was a sickness. The cure was deadly.

That wasn’t about to change because NCR opted to pony up this- this _trial-and-error_ down card.

Wasn’t about to change because this trial-and-error down card more-or-less says _sure_.

But. What _does_ feel a whole lot like change?

Is hearing the name Courier Six.

No. The _stage name_ , the nom de guerre, _Courier Six_.

Even if it isn’t rational- to think- to think out of all the fucking couriers that travel distances that could make your head spin. Somehow it…

And what’s the point in convincing himself that it is? That it’s not?

Like convincing yourself of some mysterious force capable of twisting the outcome of inevitability.

Wouldn’t make a difference.

He’s right, too.

About how it definitely, _definitely_ , doesn’t make a difference when _Courier Six_ pushes through the double-doors of the Outpost’s headquarters months later.

\---

Kendall recognizes them.

Keen lines of frivolity and assurance. The imperious weight of a gaze. Esthetic composition of form; this ridiculous harmony of structure.

And Kendall does not recognize them.

This personification of the Wasteland, hammered in, gnarled over and knived at the once already honed curvature of a grin. Of a set of features that can slice. Skin of sunlight and scars.

There was nothing new, replaced, or rebuilt here.

That wasn’t the Mojave’s specialty.

It was _molding_ someone, taking what you had and redefining it; tarnished mangled sabotaged blight of every little bit and piece that made you.

What made Courier Six, this vacuous show of arrogance that had carved into the carefully crafted pedestal of confidence, oozed heavy.

Thick, and apparently down Kendall’s throat. Because he is silent, waiting. Riveted to the ambivalence and uncertainty that hung.

Courier Six cares none.

“Missed me? It’s been awhile, Major,” with informality, light and expectedly incongruous. Leaning against the counter the same way they’d done half a year ago. Just not.

And Kendall doesn’t voice that the proximate length of _awhile_ could easily jump from his tongue, right then. Alternatively, with extra astuteness and commonsense:

Kendall says, “James.” Simple, flat. Like it’s something he’s only just recalled. “You’ve been busy.”

Gets a short, humorless laugh. “No more than anyone else.”

A statement that is betrayed by the dulled embitterment in his eyes. The hodgepodge stains that coat the dark leather of his armor, matte and glossy tinted rosewood.

The stories people were spreading.

His lips press together. pencil tapping against the desk. “Yeah, well, anyone else would disagree.” Thinking it was a strange time for James to be modest.

Then again, maybe it wasn’t all that modest, the blasé disregard of something so monumental. As if NCR plucking civilians from the desert, entrusting them with gigs that would aid the war effort happened everyday.

Sure, yeah, it was bordering an eleventh-hour endeavor- but.

Capable agents were at a premium.

To a shrug, Kendall tacks on, “A lot of them appreciate it, though. Whatever your reason.” Modulation caught between appreciation and a muted inculpation, a blandishment of a query.

And James’ eyes are unsettling. The way they tighten, simmer. Face unreadable, washed slate and glaucous. A cool incalescence that runs fingers down Kendall’s spine, subliming. When, “Meet me in New Vegas. Two days, sunset.”

His teeth snap, “I’m not-”

“Three days.”

“I’m not _on leave_.” He averts, final.

_Unconvincingly_.

“So I’m borrowing you,” James straightens, semi-smiles, “NCR owes me a few favors; you’re on, _whatever_ , now.”

Kendall’s “You _seriously_ think that’s how this works?” trampled by:

“See you in two days.”


	2. The Danger Is I'm Dangerous (And I Might Just Tear You Apart)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Well if my story’s not entertaining enough for you, how about we move on to yours?”
> 
> James plucks the cigarette from his mouth. Smiles razorblades, “Which one?”

* * *

He shouldn’t be here.

There’s plenty proof of that. Sticky beneath the soles of his boots. Pinched and prodding in the muscle of his shoulder. Lit-up blinding, nebular under brewing-dusk. Polychrome luminescence. Electric.

Five percent electric, if you wanted to get technical.

This is where that much of their energy from Hoover Dam gets zapped off to. Treaty-bound.

This; a street of wasted NCR comrades, stumbling, turgid gamblers and their snide lips, vinyl-wrapped prostitutes, a vomit-covered wall. Casinos that chew you up and spit you out, religious. Baptize in a reservoir of glitzy pestilence.

And the towering monstrosity that is Lucky 38. The sun setting low behind it. Makes it out to be some gigantic silhouette against the sky. A blackened loom.

A statement that he is on time.

He shouldn’t be here. But his steps stay a cadence, sounding off against the Strip’s solitary stretch of asphalt.

Because, yeah, Lucky 38. A silhouette. Like  _Courier Six_.

Where both had that Old World flair, that Old World grin. Drew you closer with possibilities and risk and pretty, pretty things.

That was the problem with gambling and casinos and good-looking faces, though. The mystique.

No one knew what they were in for. What was behind those doors. Behind James’ fickle nature and charring eyes. Under the veneer of tasteful angles and neon.

Except _James_.

Being the first person to step foot in that place in over- what, a couple centuries? It sure as hell shouldn’t sit fine-and- _dandy_ with NCR. With _anyone_.

Only every citizen he passes is struck with awe, reverent, ignoring the fact a nobody package-carrier was nabbed out of oblivion to enter the long-sealed tomb of some supposed robot-controlling mystery overseer of New Vegas.

Kendall _gets_ it. Access like that meant a lot of potential secrets unlocked that NCR obsessively wanted their hands on.

But access like that, also, meant a lot of potential secrets _withheld_. Exploited. You know, _against_ them.

It was like this: code of the Wastes prescribed you did not fuck with couriers; viz., you did not fuck with your supply line. End of. Robbing, attacking, harassing them? Low.

The flags on their backs could always be your own.

Or. Or somebody else’s.

So…no. No Kendall wasn’t about to applaud James’ performance for the sake of it. Not when he was oh-so blessed to realize firsthand what an _ass_ he was.

And as much as Kendall couldn’t stand rumors-

When rumors hyped the prowess of someone like that-

The silver-tongue with a quick draw and the wherewithal to off you with their bare hands-

The _so-called_ who seemingly held the _future of the Mojave_ in those hands. Or, at least, had a part of it dancing beneath his fingertips.

It’d be stupid to assume otherwise. For now.

Kendall tongues over the bust in his lip, eyes dragging from the way-too-immaculate entrance of Lucky 38, towards Gomorrah’s small patch of artificial lawn-and-palm.

Towards James, standing casual, there. Pistol at his side, lever-action on his back.

A screaming memo nowhere in the Wastes’ was actually _safe_. Something others on the Strip had clearly forgotten, caught up in the ruse of it all, or maybe’d just chosen to ignore. Thought their money bought them invincibility. Guarded by nothing but grimy pre-War clothes, naked fists, a trust in those Securitrons of House’s that border the street.

If anything, the Securitrons put Kendall even more on edge.

Maybe James agrees, or maybe James is just aware he’s a bigger target than everyone else is, because despite how well the news suggests he can handle himself, he passes up the opportunity to wear some Strip-worthy fancy suit for the occasion.

Kendall blends here with other soldiers in NCR uniform. James sticks out like New Vegas on the Mojave horizon.

All dauntingly overaweing.

A disregarded augury when he approaches. When James tenses straight.

A reaction that grants Kendall a victory for his “bigger target” theory.

Even if James is already beaming, blue skies in his eyes, “You came!” Like he’s _surprised_.

Kendall imposes.

“You mean I had a choice?”

Files James’ smile a little too sharp, corrosive at its corners. Comment snubbed with, “We always have a _choice_ , cadet.”

And Kendall stares. Lost on the maxim in those words, how to respond to it.

But he also he isn’t given a chance to. Jumping at the weight of James’ arm falling over his shoulders.

Who asks, “Where to then, Major?” offers, “Gomorrah is more my style, yah know? But the Tops is great, too. _Way_ better than the Ultra-Luxe anyway. The whole overly-posh-creepy-luxurious thing is nice, I guess, but,” a loud whisper, “I wouldn’t recommend the meat-”

“What about the Lucky 38?” Kendall snipes, glacial, laden. An interruption to the _rambling_ that blindsides him in a way it shouldn’t.

James pauses. A beat or two. Long enough for Kendall to duck out from under him, stumble back. Distance from the extra heat that radiates out from his skin.

Waiting expectant as James’ _lips quirk up_ , like it _pains_ him not to permeate the pizazz of an Old World star every chance he gets, “You might’ve heard that’s not an option, sorry to disappoint-”

“You’ve been inside,” persists, “That true?”

But James speaks over him, emphasizes that, “ _Tours_ aren’t on my list of services, at least, not for there. Maybe one of the Securitrons could show you around, though, if that’s what you’re into. I don’t judge-”

Kendall grinds down, pries suspicious, “What, exactly, _is_ on your list of services, then?”

More teeth, “I could _show_ you-”

“You could _tell me_ who you’re _working for_ ,” he suggests, _strongly_.

Gets raised eyebrows and roaming eyes, “You’re kind of bossy, aren’t you?”

And Kendall huffs, “You couldn’t have expected me to come here without questions. Not after all of that-”

“Well, most people don’t turn a New Vegas rendezvous into an interrogation-”

“ _Most people_ don’t wander the Wasteland doing favors for no reason. Most people don’t _consistently aid_ a warring faction they’ve made clear they don’t support. And most people definitely can’t say they’ve _met House_ ,” he counters, “So _excuse me_ for wondering what your fucking agenda is.”

“…World peace? Sugar Bombs for everyone?”

“ _Who_ ,” he pushes, “are you _working for?_ ” steps close, like his negative two inches on the guy is intimidating, flames licking under his ribcage. Battles what’s left of the sun biting at the back of his neck. The same sun that paints James’ face the color of deserts and wilted globemallows as it sinks, slow, behind deteriorated seminaries of vice-and-dice, the makeshift gallimaufry of wall that perimeters the Strip.

And that face has fallen passive. Portrays that restrained stare that injects lead into Kendall’s lungs. And, maybe, Kendall has a death wish. Which is news to him, taking in the fact he’s making demands at someone who has those rumors surrounding them Kendall’d rather not test out.

It’s not his most tactically-sound decision ever. Like, at all. Accosting suspected espionage flat-out and full-on was bottom of the list, even. Least recommended strategy. Probably.

He scopes out an NCR soldier over James’ shoulder. An MP who _isn’t_ intoxicated. Just in case.

James’ lever-action is way bigger than Kendall’s pistol.

A laugh is exhaled, “Listen, Knight, comma Kendall,” solar-eyes locked on his, “I may not give a deathclaw’s _ass_ about all that political brahmin-shit, but-” a barbed smirk, “Let’s get one thing straight.” And James channels the Lucky 38. Towering, dark. “I’m _not_ you, and it includes bears, bulls, and _talking computers_ when I say this: I don’t sell my ass for _anyone._ ”

Comes out like an oath.

Something that doesn’t put Kendall at ease. Oaths were nothing when divine witnesses didn’t exist anymore to hear them. To listen to vows and promises that die on cold lips. Shriveled words. Carried away on the wings of dust storms.

But he considers. Brief.

Ends up shaking his head. “Why did you even ask me here?” Wonders, because, if James wasn’t planning on filling him in on, well, fucking _anything_ \- or introducing him to a hole in the ground…

James answers, instant, with a question, “Why did you _come_?” Something odd in his defiance, lurking below.

And Kendall can say he’s pretty good with provocations. Charged words that cradle dares in each vocable and cocky stances he lives to prove wrong.

What he’s not so good at is explaining himself. Pinpointing motivation or any of that psychological bullshit people like Doc Usanagi dealt with.

Basically, no. Kendall does _not_ know why he is standing on the Strip next to the Mojave’s up-and-coming celebrity.

So he wavers, settles on the obvious. The safest. “I want answers.”

It is not a lie.

Even if James scoffs, mouth curving humorless, swings his head towards a group of rowdy civilians stirring the Securitrons about. “Right,” he says, “so, would you like the short or long version of my life story?” His stare colliding back with Kendall’s green, cuts out, a spiteful throwaway, “My lucky number is 12, by the way. Favorite color? _Mauve_ -”

“Seriously?”

“Okay, _fine_ , you caught me- it’s not mauve. Honestly, I don’t even know what mauve looks like, but it sounded pretty classy, didn’t it?”

“ _James-_ ”

“Oh, sorry, sorry. Any other answers you wanted? Why Legion wears skirts? Who shot first in the big bad War? Why that guy in Novac is so obsessed with whatever dinosaurs are? Or we done here?”

Kendall nods, steady, his own humorless smile, “We’re done here.”

Turns to walk away. Like he’s _free_ , like that’s it.

Two steps, and he hears a muttered curse. Three steps and, “Kendall, wait-”

Kendall waits.

James says, “Look,” and “whatever reason you came here for, I’d-”

Kendall inhales.

“I would really like it if you let me take you to the Tops tonight.”

Kendall exhales.

And the statement jars him. Baffles him with its simplicity. And it is. So, so simple. Nostalgic, and so fucking different than the chaos around them.

It takes him back. To a place he’s never been. To a moment he’s never experienced. A feeling that churns and festers, a roiling force in his chest that makes him yearn for it, yearn for-

Reminds him of this event, some affair preserved only in fragile pages of weak-spined books. In advertisements long-forgotten on concrete floors of abandoned warehouses and shops.

Youth and schools and rosy cheeks. Nicely-pressed shirts. Dresses decorations dates. Had an air of importance. Like it’d mattered a lot to people.

Kendall wonders how important it seemed once the bombs started dropping.

All of that- it’s stark against the ruin and debris and depravity cavorting in front of his eyes, littered on the Strip.

And it’s ridiculous. _He’s_ ridiculous for comparing- for even _thinking_ of something like that when, right now?

This was _not_ that world.

Kendall talks over it, stresses too-too-loud, blurts, “Do you have any idea how intimidating you are?”

Doesn’t know why he does, the question directing itself over his shoulder, finding its way towards the _idiot_ behind him. It’s not something he should admit. But James has to realize, he has to make James _realize_.

It’s several seconds of nothing. Just the tune of the Strip. Cheering and arguments and jeers. Distant battle cries and cries for help that will get no response. The liveliest place in the Mojave. Full of the deadest people.

James adds to that network of noise, a “I’m not sure what you want me to do with that.”

Kendall’s not too sure, either, rakes a hand through his hair, under his beret. Sighs, reaching, “I know nothing _about you_ , James- you’re-”

“Then _get_ to _know_ me,” like it’s the most obvious solution, foolproof.

Kendall knows better than to believe that.

Everything in this fucking Wasteland was risky, indefinite. Invariably without exception.

But that’s never stopped him from turning around.

From swallowing the protests, building wretched in the back of his throat.

From saying, “Yeah.”

From nodding, “Okay.”

* * *

“Hey hey, fella, welcome to the Tops Hotel and Casino. I know you’re good for it, but I’m still gonna have to ask you and your pal here to hand over any weapons you might be carrying.”

The Tops.

Just another wildly effulgent structure on the Strip. Another farce built upon an infatuation with the Old World. Stacked high, the foundation of a dead culture.

Kendall’s ears ring with it, the Chairman greeter’s swanky talk, the usual spiel.

Lingo and design like they were embodying something _cool_. All odd angles and fresh.

One of the other casinos- _Gomorrah_. Sex, gambling, liquor. Engulfed in fire, suggestive curvy decor, golden and blood hues that danced across bare skin, chains, cages, lurky smoke.

No one could deny it was a sleazy hole-up, but no one was really complaining, either.

And then the Ultra-Luxe.

Hell, creepy or not, there wasn’t much else in the Mojave that could come anywhere near its level of extravagance. White columns, fluttery music, tuxes and pretty dresses, overly-priced drinks, marble counters. Damage of the Great War almost non-existent. And that meant something to people.

No one really went there to gamble.

Patrons of the Ultra-Luxe were searching for the sense of actually being important, actually mattering. An escape from their insignificance, the fact they were in the middle of the fucking end, in the same way patrons of Gomorrah were searching for the comfort of excessive debauchery.

To become no one.

Folks who visited the Tops? Were probably just fucking bored. Or a delusional hue of carefree. And the Tops kindly offered the same opportunities of getting avoidantly wasted and losing a month’s worth of caps, minus the prostitutes and pretentious douchebaggery.

Kendall draws a 9mm from where it’s holstered at his belt, unhooks his sheathed combat knife, throwing them up on the front desk’s rotund counter where they’re collected by another pompadour-slicked Chairman.

And that’d be that.

Except James has something short of a shit-ton on him.

Kendall waits a little staggered, eying the myriad forms of hidden armament he pulls from _god-knows_ -where, bemused.

The weathered 10mm. The lever-action. Yeah.

Then frag grenades. A type of knife he’s never seen before. Two switchblades. More pistols: a .45 auto and a .22; _silenced_ , he thinks.

And Kendall has this trying feeling that it’s only a fraction of what he usually carries. The Strip wasn’t safe, but it also wasn’t the infinite stretch of death beyond its fence. And if this is what he brings to a casino.

Metal clatters and clicks, lands against the linoleum countertop, James finishing with a smile and a, “Boom. There yah go.”

Smile’s returned, smug, “Smooth and easy just the way I like it. Don’t worry, these’ll be safe as kittens ‘til you’re ready to leave.”

“Uh-huh. Tell my pallie Swank I said hi,” darkly wry, a secret only he is in on.

“Sure thing. Oh and, uh, a friendly word of _advice_ : if you happen to _stumble across_ any weapons during your stay here, well. Just don’t wear them openly. Ya dig?”

“I dig. You dig, Kendall?”

Kendall shifts. Eyes between James and the greeter. “Yeah.”

“Solid, baby. Enjoy your stay.”

And Kendall doesn’t quite know if he wants to do that or not.

But James pulls him along, magnetic, walking forward with an intent that makes him follow.

Kendall tucks his beret into the loop of his belt as they tread up stairs, passing the balcony, the cashier’s desk, push through double-doors that reside under the red yellow green glow of letters that claim “Aces Theatre.”

And the music grows louder. Switches from the tinny instrumental beat of what he knows as “Slow Bounce” echoing throughout the lobby, to the judgy croon of female vocals, jazzy and smooth, that hound " _Why Don’t You Do Right?_ ” within the walls of the dim lounge. Glasses clink, chatter of the room humming low and irregular.

James aims for a table towards the right, towards the back of the scene; a generous distance from the spotlight-lit stage, a sensible distance from the bar. And he plops down in a chair that faces the bulk of the room, like his ass owns it.

It might.

He’s sliding another of the three under his feet, propping them up with a faint grunt, when Kendall finally shuffles to perch himself in the remaining spot, tentative.

Watches someone important-looking approach, a man sidling up to the small table, arms crossed, all chummy and familiar, “Well, well, well. If it isn’t the most-loved cat on the Strip in _my_ theatre. What can Tommy do for you?”

Tommy Torini, then, he notes. Runs this part of the joint.

James releases a gust of air through his lips, eyes to the cracked ceiling, like the hardest thing he’s had to do all day was choose his drink, “Whiskey me. _Neat_.” He defines, pointed.

“And for…?”

An intercepted attempt of Kendall’s reply with “This is _Major_ Knight,” enunciation of his rank serrated and dragged. Adds cheery, “And he’d like a Scotch. Whatever you’ve got.”

Kendall opens his mouth, closes it against an objection- because apparently there’s a rule somewhere around here about him getting to speak.

Torini is back to gushing, states, “Any friend o’ this big-leaguer is a friend o’ mine,” and “You hear all these crazy acts, baby? Wouldn’t have been possible without him.”

He thinks he sees James wince, fingers popping a cigarette out from a shredded carton, deft, staring it down with a dismissive offhand. “I handed out pieces of paper to a few wannabes kicking it in the Wastes, Tom. I didn’t _train_ them.”

And _Tom_ shakes his head like he’s heard it all before, appeasing, “I’ll go see about those drinks.”

Leaves Kendall to needle, “Why’d you do that?”

James knows exactly what he’s talking about, says with the still-unlit cigarette dangling from his lips, digging for a lighter, “Because you were gonna order a Vodka.” As if that’s all the justification he needs.

Kendall squints, though, because, yeah, yeah he was, and James throws him a look with raised eyebrows that dare him to deny, a lighter flame caressing his face orange and soft, igniting blackened irises.

Kendall resigns to an indignant, “So?” Eyes grazing over the sharp-shadowed angles of James’ face, defends “What’s wrong with Vodka?”

It makes James grin, pulling the smoke from his stretched lips to rest between two fingers. An obscure and slight, “Nothing.” That lighter tossed upon the shabby chipped surface of the table, _thump_ -and- _tink_ ing. It’s engraved, silver and reflective, bouncing back vague outlines through a sheen of age and grime. Spots of rust. Kendall wonders where he picked it up from. Or who off of.

James slides an ashtray more convenient. Leans forward until his chin is propped up on his fist, the weight of his arm drawing out a creaky protest from the furniture below it, “You don’t drink very often, do you,” he accuses.

“I’m usually on duty,” Kendall answers, deliberate.

And as for getting smashed at the run-down dumpy waterhole the Outpost offered, of all places, he’d save for the day he _completely_ hit rock bottom. Life in the Wastes’ was utter shit, but it wasn’t drinking horribly-concocted Absinthe and Atomic Cocktails in the company of brahmin and hopelessly despondent travelers on the border of Nevada, level of shit. At least not yet.

James takes the excuse with a short sound of acknowledgement, musing, his stare resilient and heavy. Then, “Where’re you from?”

And, no, “Isn’t the point of this whole… _thing_ …so that I get to know more about _you_?” He quirks an eyebrow.

James admonishes, rogue and lively, “What, you expect me to spill my guts while you get to stay all mysterious? That’s no fair,” He reclines back into his chair, taking a drag from the cigarette. His lips wrap around it. Plush and sun-roughened. Curving pink against an imperfect white.

Kendall watches them. James watches Kendall.

And he breathes out, leisured, smoke embracing the air, curling, accompanying the words from his mouth when he prods, “Doesn’t suit you anyways,” a beat and a dangerous smirk, “Why? You got secrets, Kendall Knight?”

Kendall ignores the barb. Sags back in his own seat, fingers pushing through his hair, tries to breathe a little easier.

“Goodsprings,” He states, meets hazel, “Up north. I grew up there.”

James pauses, gets that kinda look someone has when they hear their name spoken.

Kendall guesses, “You been there?”

Not many people had. The town didn’t see much of anything, not anymore - or, okay, ever - with travelers being driven off by the connecting roads’ Powder Ganger infestation and the rearing of the deathclaw population stemming from Sloan’s Quarry Junction. The same shit that had the Outpost stagnate with useless caravans and aggravated troops.

Mostly it had him a wreck. But Goodsprings was practically a ghost town, always sleepy, and it usually stayed that way.

It’s what he kept repeating to himself at night.

“You could say that,” James goes with, contemplative. Eyes down, briefly.

Kendall’s brow furrows, notes a flex of muscle in the arm the other has thrown over the circular table, the tighter bend of fingers, but James prompts, “Then?”

“…and then I volunteered,” he concludes with finality. Like the end of a story. The closing of a book.

But James asks, “Why?” Already composed, casually stoic.

_Why?_

“Because,” he words, resolute, simple and honest, “I’ll be damned if I ever allow my family to live under the hand of the fucking Legion.”

And Kendall stares, knowing, eyes locked as he says it. Because, he’s still unaware, doubtful, of what James is gunning towards.

His help could mean nothing.

James had somehow clawed his way into becoming a huge deciding factor in the overall scheme of things, a deciding factor in how this shit-storm could come to close.

And if James _decided_ he liked the idea of a Bull flag rearing its head over the Wasteland, the sight of people strung up on crosses like lights lining his path, it could very well mean that possibility becoming a reality.

The thought boiled him.

Not just because of the obvious, though. The possibility of Legion rule was unacceptable, yeah. They were slavers, ruled tyrannically and absolute by some guy who thought the human race was property he could own and bringing back some Latin-speaking lifestyle from the bygone days was an idea.

But it was how they treated women. It was, fuck- it overwhelmed his worst nightmares. And shit, man, those could get bad. Those times he felt like dying rather than coming to and facing how real it all was.

It was venom-sharp inside him. The fact that thinking of his mom and little sister always led to thoughts of thin-boned walking corpses, girls with lifeless eyes, markings of a harsh X across lone rags that covered threadbare bodies, swallowed them whole.

No.

No, as much as James seemed to lack an appreciative regard for any faction besides himself, he couldn’t trust him. Not yet. _Because_ of that.

No matter what images that voice of his conjured with Kendall’s name.

James meets his stare head-on. Feigns naive, only replies, “That’s…” a head tilt, “ _painfully_ predictable.” Emphasizes the comment with an exasperatedly tortured expression. Dramatic.

Kendall half-balks, nonplussed. Scathes, “Uh, sorry?” Anything but.

And he’s _very_ thankful when drinks appear on the table in front of him.

It at least gives him something to throw at James’ head, now.

A weasel-faced bartender, spouts, “Best booze in New Vegas!”

Kendall doubts it. He mutters a “Thanks.”

His drink glows rich amber and honey, in front of him, though, the warm type of hue that shades the Mojave horizon, reflects off of its barren expanse and corroded asphalt near sunset. It blooms the thought of blistering heat across his tongue, earthy sage and dust and blood and the molder of neglected creation.

There’s not much that doesn’t these days.

But he’s never really gotten around to downing Scotch, and he’s pretty sure James knows it. Really, he hadn’t been lying; he’s lucky enough if he has time to throw back a beer anymore. Which is ironic considering how often his post had him hoarded up behind a desk watching flies buzz by to the tune of the same crackling songs that dance their way over miles of Waste. Crawl out from holes in the ground and ooze from the ruptured plaster of forsaken abodes.

On repeat. On repeat. On repeat.

Kendall wipes a hand down the thigh of his faded cargos, peering down at the glass. He wraps his fingers around it, gingered. Feels James’ gaze on him.

Says, “Well if my story’s not entertaining enough for you, how about we move on to yours?”

James plucks the cigarette from his mouth. Smiles razorblades, “Which one?”

“…How many are there?”

“Well ask around,” caustically, “Everyone seems to have their own.”

Ash and embers fall into the ashtray. Dance and flicker.

“That’s a lot of stories.”

“It is, isn’t it…”

James’ jaw clenches, stare wandering off around the room. Pensive and dark.

Patrons flit about. Solemn, boisterous, drunk, sober, serious, over-confident. A man tries to hang himself over a fierce-looking girl in a stained dress. One of the stand-up acts mutters to himself in the corner. Someone gestures wildly to a group of obvious ex-junkies, bruise-shadowed faces and bone arms.

A women with a tight-updo laughs loud, discordant.

And they’re all half-illumed by stage lights, outlined dreamlike. The place is illusive. Hazed under alcohol and sheened by the smoke trailing up from ashtrays and in-between slack lips.

“Can I hear the one you have then?” He drives, idly. Eyes drilling into a man glaring vacant and hollow at the far wall.

His fingers curl harder around the glass in his hand.

James snubs out his own cigarette, pulling his feet from where they’ve been propped up.

Asks, “How old are you?”

“25,” Kendall answers automatic.

James snipes, “Pretty young for Major.”

“Maybe.” He chews his lip, “I started young.”

“You’re still just a kid.”

“Kids grow up fast around here.” And James should know that, most likely does, and Kendall feels like he only says things anymore to watch him dance and squirm beneath him.

Kendall counters, “How old are _you_?”

James responds easy, “26,” a shrug, “27.”

Kendall states back, token, “Pretty fucking young for the Dark Horse of the Mojave.”

James breathes in, deep, expression bright and unreadable. There’s a few considering seconds before, “Dark Horse, huh?”

Kendall leans towards the table, both hands braced against it, their faces close again, close, because, _shit_ this table is small, not meant for more than ashtrays and bottles of liquor-- he focuses on challenging, “You can’t deny you came out of nowhere,” _Very_ _suddenly_ , he internally notes, suddenly and detrimentally and _catastrophically_ , “I mean, everyone’s vying for a piece of this place,” and Kendall studies him, bitter, “but it’s already yours, isn’t it?”

And James is watching, searing and still way too close, amused and appreciative and _winning_.

It’s a game. And James has him. That’s the way he watches. Like Kendall has just moved an important chess piece into the line of his bishop.

Kendall hates it. _Hates_ the curve of his lips. The _constant_ curve of his lips. Redolent and charged.

He doesn’t want him to stop.

James’ hand slinks across the table, then, grips Kendall’s drink and it slides further towards him, scraping smooth. “Bottoms-up.”

Kendall bites at the inside of his cheek as James slips back from their proximity, takes to his own ‘ _Whiskey. Neat._ ’

He recognizes it for what it is: an attempt to knock him down a peg.

And he glares before returning his attention to the forgotten Scotch, cradles it back into his hold. Tries not to think twice about it when he kicks back a try.

One-hundred percent certain he doesn’t keep a straight face.

Liquid smoke. Singeing its way across his tongue, licking the roof of his mouth, shoving a path down his throat. A mouthful of leather chasing it, vivacious.

He doesn’t bother keeping down a grit, “What the _fuck-_ ” a grunt, “‘Like downing a fucking campfire.”

Which is pretty goddamn accurate.

James is laughing at him. Of course he is. Over the rim of his glass, the corner of his eyes crinkled, his mouth quirked captivating, his nose scrunching barely -

Kendall forgets to be put-out by it.

Air swirls into his mouth and it flares, clings there, oily and persistent, sparking citrus and salty lakes and bitterness and sweetness and -

It’s something probably worth way more back when people actually drank for the taste and the experience. The sensation.

But the tang of burning earth is like a punch to the face.

Fire is zinging through his veins and over his skin as he looks back up to watch the laughter dull from James’ face, watch it dwindle into a decisive expression, watch him prop against the table, beckon him with the curl of a finger.

Kendall hesitates with a narrow of his eyes. Barely tilts himself forward, cautious, skeptical. Curious.

James makes up for the distance, reaching over to remove the Scotch from his hand, unhurried, skin brushing his. Kendall’s stomach turns. He follows the path of the drink to James’ lips.

And those lips frame resolved words, after, “I don’t know where I was born. California - probably. I’d spent most of my life there anyway, in the South…” and there’s a fleeting faraway glaze to his eyes, before he shoves out, undertones reminiscent, “New Reno. The Hub,” then adds almost reluctant, a tone of distaste, “Angel’s Boneyard.”

He knocks back more of the Scotch before setting the glass aside, meets Kendall’s riveted eyes, tells him information he’s already aware of, “I worked as a package carrier,” and information he’s not, “Was in The Hub when I heard of the order, got hired for a job here in the Mojave.”

Goes on to say, stiff, pungent, “It was good pay. Really good. And the distance was nothing compared to-” stops, mouth clamped, deliberating. Then, on a new breath, a new vigor, “You play poker, Kendall?”

He shakes his head, small.

“Sometimes,” James emphasizes, cynical, tongue swiping out brief, “people get dealt a really good hand. Really strong. A favorite to win, right?” He smiles, more a grimace, “But you know what happens?”

Kendall waits.

“They lose,” James answers, and his face turns to steel, aloof, “It’s called a _bad beat_ , Kendall.”

He feels his lungs tighten, feels them crush under the weight of James. James, who explains that, “Sometimes luck just isn’t a lady. And sometimes,” his voice shifts, reflective, as if quoting, “the game is rigged…” trails off.

A beat, and he’s zeroing back in on Kendall - Kendall, who’s having trouble keeping up - elaborates straightforward and ruthless, deadpan and way too nonchalant, ends like the moral of the story is, “A guy shot me in the head. So I returned the favor.”

It’s short, to the point, like he’s tired of it being told any other way.

But Kendall swallows. Would be lying if he said he didn’t shudder at it, nails biting into his leg.

Goodsprings. That’d happened near Goodsprings. In the cemetery. Why James had looked that way at its mention.

Kendall remembers it now, hearing it on the radio with a misplaced joke.

Shit, that and, “Benny…” he gathers out loud, unintentional, the name falling heavy from his lips.

And he’s not too sure anymore who in James’ narrative had supposedly gotten dealt the ‘bad beat.’ Not when, really, the smarmy former Tops hotel owner was the one lying cold between the two.

But James visibly reacts to the name, talks over it, expression mordant, fires precarious and _loaded_ , “How ‘bout it then, _Major_ ,” tongue caressing those words in a way that should be outlawed, like, yesterday. Shoots deadly, “Wanna be my kill of the night?”

Like it’s all a joke. Like the proposition couldn’t _absolutely_ be taken in the literal sense.

Kendall’s heart thuds, thick and harsh. Skin buzzing. Either way. Figurative or literal, his insides are chaos, ready to bolt, even as he sits frozen under James’ wolfish eyes, even when all he wants to do is _stay_.

It’s all he can do to breathe out, faint, full, “What are you after?” Doesn’t know if he means allegiance, the Mojave, factions, politics, the outcome of the war - or with him, in this moment.

The outcome of tonight.

James evades both.

“Right now? A dance,” his face sparking, lit-up, mockingly innocent, “They’re playing my favorite song.”

Kendall doesn’t listen for any song, can’t focus or find it, but he cites, “They play it a thousand times a day.” Because it’s true, whichever it is, it’s one of the few dozen or so song files left, apparently. And the ones they have their hands on endlessly and countlessly loop, never ending melodies that carry across the Mojave, solemn blues or upbeat and jazzy, men who sing about girls, women who sing about men, love and broken hearts - belted out over the sand; Mr. New Vegas introduces them each time like they’re newly salvaged classics from the good ol’ days.

But how can they be reminiscent of anything other than the Wasteland now.

With survival, with starvation, irradiated water, creatures and ghouls gunning for your throat, itching to tear you apart, the sun aspiring to blast silhouettes of all it touches into the dead earth, blackened and seared shapes.

With loss. Everyone around you dropping like bloatflies. With desperate hope: the only motivation that drives you to even _move_.

James disregards all of it with a remark of “So?” Stands up, looming over Kendall in more ways than one.

A hand is extended towards him.

Kendall stares at it like it’s the trouble-end of a pistol.

“…You’re serious?”

He asks, because, James’ disposition? Whiplash-inducing. Asking for a dance in this darkly charming way less than minutes after dramatically expressing acts of vengeance, bladelike and untamed. It was ridiculous and bewildering and like _hell_ Kendall was getting up to dance with _him_ of all people in this joint, _okay_?

James wiggles the fingers of the proffered hand, palm upfacing: provoking the invitation, baiting. “The first dance is always free,” he offers, smirks.

Kendall opens his mouth, shuts it. Sight torn between that hand and James’ face and - James’ neck that travels down to his collarbone to his chest to his waist -

His hand that is calloused, rough, knuckles wrapped in some sort of clothy medical tape once around, strong and capable and seasoned as much as the rest of the body attached to it.

His skin that glows gold and bronze and scarred, stretched tight over sinews of muscle that coil up his arm until they disappear under his leather armor -

…and fuck if anyone should be allowed to have a face like that in this shit-hole of a world - allowed to ignore the way dirt was embedded, practically permanent, into the cracks and grooves of everyone in it, the way the heat and sky and circumstance ravaged deep -

No one. Yet there James stood, taking that and exploiting it like hell. The cut of his cheekbones sun-flushed, sweat gathering at his temples and along his hairline that led to wild strands, ruffled.

He shouldn’t accept and he _knows_ there’s a reason he shouldn’t and he plans to turn him down, to tell him no, to get out of there while his everything is still intact but.

Kendall reaches out almost involuntarily, impulsively. Halts halfway there.

Wavers, scanning the room, eyes flitting between the bodies occupying it.

Before James snorts. Seizes his faltering hand and lifts him from the chair, brings him colliding against him fully and Kendall’s breath catches in his throat. Would have stumbled back if it wasn’t for a conclusive concrete grab at his hip.

It burns him all the way through his armor.

Kendall is tense, flickering between patrons of the lounge and James and searching for threats-

James comprehends the reaction pretty fast, peers down at him amused and scrutinizing, “You _really_ think these people have time to care what you like shoved up your ass, situation as it is?”

The words ghost remindful of the Scotch on their tongues, distracting, scented agave, creosote-soaked elm, notes he hadn’t tasted-- Kendall blinks, tries to ignore the heat of it that fans across his lips and the heat that lines and presses close against him or the stirring of--

He breathes out, incredulous, admittedly shaky, but with conviction, “God, you’re _joking._ Right?” Because James has to be. Joking, or- there’s no way someone who navigated the Wasteland so well could think something so naive. Maybe he just didn’t give a shit, maybe didn’t care what anyone thought. He could afford it. But to be that blind to it.

Even if it wasn’t in concern for his own safety, Kendall wishes he could see it that way. It wasn’t that he didn’t have confidence, or pride. He had plenty of both.

But he also had plenty an inclination to prove it.

Snide comments, derogatory insults, judgy glances, cringe-worthy nicknames whistled from across fields--

Yeah. _Pride_.

He goes on, points out with a cynical certainty, “People _always_ make time to be judgmental bastards,” tears his view away from the room to meet James dead-on, because, pride, remember? He can’t help but try and _win_ , has to add, raised eyebrows and stubborn, “Besides, who says I like anything shoved up my ass?”

Despite his words, Kendall’s hands move on their own accord, settle on James’ leather armor-clad shoulders with ridiculously more sureness than he has at the moment.

James looks halfway between an eyeroll, incredulity, and a very odd admiration, “We’re gonna play that game?”

But he says this as Kendall finally takes in the music knocking off the walls.

…It is not a slow song.

A man serenades, enamored and forward, cheeky and buoyant:

 

_When an irrepressible smile such as yours_

_Warms an old implacable heart such as mine_

 

Two ladies attempt some sort of Old World jive to it, and the fact others are dancing maybe makes Kendall feel better, but he and James are still flush against each other, barely swaying, even, to the song’s bouncy melody. James’ fingers branded below his waist-

It’s almost embarrassing. _Games_ . James wanting to accuse him of games when _this_ -

Kendall shrugs, can’t help but glare in challenge or in resentment, “Why should you be the only one who gets to?”

His eyes are neon, graze over Kendall’s face, musing as music declares, “ _So, en garde_ ,” begins to ponder _what the fates have in store_ from _their vast mysterious skies_.

James decides, wry, “Alright. Then I call the day I met you-”

“Maybe I was just letting you down gently,” he refutes, instant, because he knows what James is going for, hates that he remembers so well.

James hums, slow and thoughtful, vibrations that rattle Kendall’s bones, and he pretends to believe it, pretends that _either_ of them believe it, comments beholden, pseudo-reverent and paced, “Gosh, how knightly of you. To be so considerate of my feelings.”

And somewhere in the back of his mind, he’s rolling his eyes at James’ use of _knightly_.

But, mostly, he’s focused on the way James’ mouth had concurrently become closer and closer to his.

He flexes his grip at James’ shoulders.

Words foreshadowing to a tune, conclude the song definite and impending. They are white noise, ringing in his ears, a chant of defeat, “ _Fight, fight, fight, fight it with all of our might_

_Chances are some heavenly star-spangled night_

_We'll find out just as sure as we live-_ ”

 

And moisture dampens his lips. He parts them, eyelids fluttering. All of him begging and begging and chanting _fuck_ and James says-

“Then tell me about your first time.”

Backs off.

Kendall sinks, muscles he hadn’t known were clenched, unwinding barely. He half-exhales, “My first…?” dazed and sluggish to process. He blinks, twice, “Why?” Refuses to acknowledge the _definitely-not-disappointment_ left lingering in his gut.

James raises his eyebrows, casual, “Thought we were getting to know each other.”

Right. Kendall snorts, “Not much of an icebreaker. Most people just touch up on the weather.” Well, no, they didn’t, but according to a few articles of those _Meeting People_ magazines he’s flipped through, it was a hot pre-War topic. Now it’s just fucking hot. Maybe the weather used to be more interesting than just another thing that set out to kill you.

He has no doubt questioning strangers about their first sexual encounters with uncivil eyes was nowhere recommended in the rules of social etiquette, though.

James shrugs, “Unless you don’t _have_ one. I get it, I mean, with usually being on duty and all…” Corners of _those fucking lips_ threatening to curve.

Hell if that doesn’t push the right button.

He sighs, frustrated. Supplies, dogged and brahmin-headed, “Sixteen, I think. Happy?”

And, yeah, he looks it, the _asshole_. “Who was he?”

Kendall glares, obstinate. Gets the motive now. Spurs him into choosing, enunciating, “ _They_ ,” watching James’ reaction as he continues, dubious, “were... someone I’d grown up with. Kind of.”

Drops his eyes to recall, “They’d relocated a couple times before. Guess their dad did something that needed the both of ‘em to, I don’t know.”

His forehead creases, not really seeing the keen edge of James’ jaw in front of him, can’t help but smile, short and small, at the memory of blush-covered skin, all over, mechanics cluelessly being explained. He absently picks at a snag in James’ armor, material rough under his fingers, doesn’t notice the way James’ eyes turn to coals.

“It was…uh…” he shakes his head. It was everything two inexperienced kids of the Wasteland fumbling around on a dirty mattress could be, really, was what. In Goodsprings, of all places. He couldn’t think of anywhere more sheltered and neglected.

“What happened to ‘em?”

And his expression fades neutral, composes, remembers where he is, now, returns James’ gaze, “They moved on.” He says simple, like it’s the only thing that _could_ have happened next. People leaving, that is- “…Your turn.”

But James presses his lips together, a hard line, looks off. Dismisses, insouciant, “You don’t wanna hear about mine. It’s not as…” he tests a word on his tongue, tries, “…nice.”

Kendall stops, doesn’t know what to do with the brief and bitter flashes of a faceless stranger.

“Oh,” carefully, “um…I’m-”

James cuts him off, almost snorting, “Don’t,” and he smirks, satisfied, “There was plenty to make up for it.”

Kendall’s thankful for the interruption, allows his own light snort, spies one of the acts take the stage - Something Isaac, “I bet.”

And the peal of wistful piano hushes the room, full. The baritone of a voice, resonating. Sensuous and fervent, sonorous. That kind of sound that swells in your chest. Made girls flutter, if they were innocent enough, believed in that kinda thing. Fanned eyelashes and shy glances.

James searches his face over it, informs, nearly genuine, “I don’t plow everyone, you know.”

“I never said that."

“Yeah…” he chides, playful, “You seem to be under the impression that just because you don’t _say_ things, they don’t count.”

He aims a withering look, dares, “Oh?”

An affirmative is hummed.

“Fine…” he snarks, quirks his lips mirthlessly, “only people who breathe then?”

James gives none, drops, “Maybe. Maybe only tall, prissy blondes who need to know when to loosen up.”

Kendall reels, “That’s…uh,” clears his throat, “oddly specific.”

“Maybe I just know what I want,” his voice airy and carnal.

And Kendall takes in the way James’ eyes are fixed on him, orotund and alight. Calcine. Hollowing out his insides. Takes in the prehensile gleam, the tenacity there that blazes stronger than the neon lights of the Strip across the Mojave, reaching far and _everywhere_ , persistent and present.

He is consumed. A Fiend in a sniper’s scope. A reflection in the sight of a deathclaw.

He takes that in; thinks, _yeah_ , breathes, “Clearly.”

And somewhere in the middle Kendall’s hands had found themselves higher - higher above James’ shoulders, higher to the base of his neck where James’ hair begins - and god does he want to bury his fingers in it, feel it slide between them and - just because…because…

James’ nose brushes past his, the heat of James’ skin simmering underneath and into his veins and muscles and they are back to where they started. And Kendall can’t tell if his lungs are straining from lack of air or too much, warning bells are sounding, somewhere, loud and dissonant, jarring - but that could be the music, still flowing out from the stage, wailing, " _Its not been this way before…_ ”

He watches, petrified and eighteen all over again, James’ eyelids dropping as he locks in on his lips and Kendall stumbles out, a whisper and _fucking brilliantly_ , “You, uh - have really long eyelashes…”

_Fuck_ -

James whispers back, “Okay,” smiles slow, crooked and amused and _so very close_.

Kendall wants to capture it between his lips.

“…Close your eyes.” James suggests, that smile in his words, unsettlingly fond.

But Kendall does.

And James’ mouth meets his.

And it is warm and it is harsh and it is nothing at all like what Kendall is used to, different from the sweltering warmth of the world, different from the harsh winds that slice and the harsh air that chokes. But it’s the same - equally suffocating. Equally overwhelming.

And Kendall is dying. Or maybe he’s been dead, because, as James’ lips form and press and meld unsmooth against his, Kendall is _alive_. Too alive. And it is breaking him, corroding flesh and vessels, organs, tissue. Drying him up from the inside out.

James is an oasis that poisons, irradiating like everything else in this godforsaken Wasteland.

Except, he’s nothing like anything in it.

Kendall didn’t know something like this could exist in a place so fucking dead and abandoned: the feeling of James licking into his mouth, the impression of James’ fingers tightening on his hips, drawing him in where there is nowhere left to go. The way Kendall is breathing in the air from James’ lungs and the taste of him that is-

He tastes like the War that halted the world.

Kendall curls his hands into James’ hair, hides them under the dark short-length of it, feels it glide around underneath and through them, and thinks of how wars always ended the same.

A sound vibrates against his lips, and he quivers.

And he’s never needed anything more than what should happen next.

Which is why, when the sound of glass shatters across the ruined floor of the Aces Theatre, he thinks he’s been _saved_. Rescued by the sharp tinkling of it and the obnoxious intone of complaints.

Kendall recoils, unravels himself from a hold, staggers back a few steps, ignoring the way James instinctively gravitates with him. He is wide-eyed and buzzing, mutters something like _he has to go_ or maybe an apology _fuck_ it didn’t matter he just had to get out of there.

James doesn’t make to follow or stop him but hell if Kendall can’t feel him on him - on his lips, tongue, underneath his hands, on the tips of his fingers - as he shoves through the heavy double-doors and out onto the upper-floor lobby, greeted by the plink of slot machines and the woody roll of roulette. Casino chips rattling as someone bets it all.

He sucks in the wider space of air, pungent with age and sweat, tugs at his hair, stops because it doesn’t feel like his, approaches the cashier desk, heart thudding.

The lady stares up at him, bored and wary. Kendall manages, casual as he can, “A 9mm and- a knife,” swipes a hand over his face, “A combat, it’ll have a thirteen on the side.”

And that’s it. Once his weapons were back in his hands he could hightail it back to the Outpost, back to his own little niche in the corner of the Wasteland where nothing happened. Nothing ever fucking happened, _nothing_ -

he grinds his teeth, watches the cashier reach for the intercom beside her, to call for one of those Chairman, nails digging into the dirt-coated plastic edge of the desk.

“That won’t be necessary.”

Kendall curses. Ice shoving itself through his limbs.

James spreads his hand over Kendall’s chest, guides him backwards.

“Is there a problem, sirs?” Lady questions, eyes narrowed, finger still hesitating over the intercom.

“Not at all,” James answers, cheery and overly polite. Kendall glances at his profile, at his stupidly charming and sparkly grin.

All he can see is blood.

Lady still eyes them as James continues to herd Kendall away from her desk, manhandle him down into the stairwell until they’re out of earshot and sight.

He is caged, between James’ arm and a horribly peeling wall, hackles raised when James confronts, “Forgive me if this is a stupid question, but wanna share what you’re so afraid of?”

Kendall curls his lip, defiant and on his last leg, “ _You_ ,” he spits, “What the fuck do you _think_?”

“I don’t believe that.”

“And I don’t really give a shit- now can I- can you just,” Kendall huffs, the words blocky and awkward on his tongue, “Let me _go_ , _okay_ ?” He wanted to go _home_ -

“Sure,” James says, light, “‘Soon as you tell me the real reason you’re running.”

Kendall swallows, a pinch in his chest. Searches James’ face.

Whatever he finds there makes him crumple, defeated. Admit reluctant on a fragmented sigh, jaw clenched. Nails bite into his palms, “It’s bigger than _us_ , James.”

The lines of _Courier Six_ ’s face trouble, crease with conflict. He says, “It’s not. It doesn’t have to be.” Sounds like he means it.

But, “It does.” Kendall ascertains.

And he’s right. He knows he’s right. James isn’t a nobody. Kendall isn’t a civilian.

Pretending to get lost in New Vegas, pretending it wasn’t the Wasteland? It was just an illusion. _This_? Pretending like getting tied up in what-the-hell-ever James was stirring up in the Mojave didn’t have to mean a thing? _Deluded_.

James was _dangerous_ , and everything meant something out here. Actions had consequences.

And he’d thought he’d traveled every long, broken road the Mojave had to offer by now. But here he was, staring down another that lead to, what? He hated not knowing, hated to be blind, like sandstorms and darkness. Fire and the sun’s glare burning your eyes. Shrouding enemies and the landscape in front of you.

But.

_Shit, man_ …

He follows his hand like it belongs to someone else. Up from his side and under James’ jaw.

Yeah, he wasn’t deluded, pinned underneath James’ eyes.

He just needed this. So fucking bad it shredded him worse than when they touched.

It was the better alternative, right? If he was gonna break either way…

Companionship was kind of hard to find in the Wasteland.

The kind where a touch could mend you from the inside, at least enough for you to pretend, mask how the Wasteland has rotted you from the inside out, the kind where you know the  _name_ of the person touching you, have said more than a few words to each other before.

Maybe. Maybe he’s just tired of feeling the crack and thrum of loneliness in his bones, deep down into the marrow of it.

And maybe he couldn’t trust James completely, maybe at all, and maybe James was one of the biggest jackasses Kendall’d ever had the misfortune of conversing with.

And, maybe, if he was anywhere else, at any other time? Maybe he would’ve known it was time to fold, to back out of the game.

No, he didn’t play poker, but he knew some moves. And, right now?

He was drawing dead. Dealt a hand that had zero chance of winning this showdown. So continuing to play it?

Maybe it wasn’t the smartest thing he’s ever done.

But, hey, this was New Vegas.

And gamblers never really knew when to quit.


	3. It Ain't The Truth We Chase (It's The Promise Of A Better Place)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It wasn’t hard for people to sell freedom, not when the alternative was worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, folks- work is being so cruel to my Beta and me.

The month his assignment took him to Camp Forlorn Hope:

That was the last time Kendall’d spread his legs for anyone.

 _Private Sexton_.

The guy was older than Kendall by maybe five years, at least, didn’t seem to have a preference for- okay, really anything. But there was also the possibility he was trying to live up to his name, self-fulfill the _prophecy_ of it.

He did have a thing for puns. Which was obvious in the first minute or so of conversation. And that’s really all there was, after Sexton’d come up to him. Told him he looked tense in this charmingly goofy and overly cheerful way. All windblown hair and eager-eyed.

And Kendall has an unwritten stipulation about getting mixed up with anyone NCR-employed, because of commonsense. But he was willing to make exceptions at the time for disproportionately sanguine men who march up unashamed and blunt and propositiony, despite.

So, good idea or not, Kendall ended up letting himself get fucked against the wall of the barracks; one hand braced against the rickety structure of the building, one shoved between his teeth to keep quiet while he prayed and _prayed_ none of the other troopers would skip their sad-fucking-excuse of a meal that afternoon.

See, amusingly enough, Sexton was in charge of raising morale in that camp.

He’d skip the innuendo the statement begged for, alright?

But doing work in Forlorn Hope? Shit, Kendall’d needed it.

If you wanted to talk about shit that lived up to its name, that place did a pretty bang-up job of it, too: lack of soldiers, lack of food and medical supplies, heavy Legion presence nearby. It was a conglomeration of dejection and sharp-mouthed demoralization. An NCR hell within hell.

The next time he passed through there, though, he’d barely had time to blow Sexton in the medical tent, fast and sloppy. But he remembers him moaning about how hot it was, having a field officer on his knees for an enlisted.

Sexton, he was enthusiastic, wholehearted and earnest. But he wasn’t… _intense_. Sexton treated fucking like it was something wondrous. _Everything_ was kind of wondrous to him; a feat that was pretty commendable considering the circumstances.

No, Sexton wasn’t rough, though. Not in the way the Wasteland solicited for. Not in the way that could sand-over Mojave scars, scrape them away from the inside. Make you numb. Make you feel. Make you forget.

James?

James was rough.

 _And_ intense, and-

 _Fuck_.

Kendall’s back hits the bedroom wall of a Tops suite, and he is drowning.

Drowning in the way James was mouthing at his neck - lips, teeth, tongue - hands like anchors at his waist. Harboring him to the very bottom: a cold desperation that grates, carves at him as he grapples hands into James’ hair, arches into the solid expanse of him like it will bring him ashore.

He tugs, adamant, at a part of that leather armor, because, armor was a _bitch_ to get off.

And even more of bitch to try and get friction through.

Which, at the moment, was pulling a frustrated noise from in-between teeth with its _lack of_.

Makes his attempt at removing the pauldrons from James’ shoulders clumsy, clawing and fumbling, next to the deft unbuckling of the torso piece of his uniform.

James has their lips together at it, a smirk there Kendall can taste when those hands navigate themselves inside the unzipped opening of the jacket covering his abdomen, fingertips scratching and scorching against and down his chest.

Right where he’s sure James can feel the erratic thud of his heart as he presses into them, gasping into his mouth, burning up in that jacket that still sticks with sweat, that he helps James knock to the floor.

His skin prickles under the musty dry-air of the room, hypersensitive to the NCR dog tags that still hang from his neck, stark and heavy. Warning and judging.

Telling him to- to _establish_ something, to keep James at some sort of a distance. _Mentally_ , he tacks on, sliding his cock, heralding its presence beneath his fatigues, demanding against the leg James had slotted between his thighs-- and he knows to listen, so he bites at James’ lip.

Pants a clarification, “So we’re clear-” kisses him hard and brief, “I still think you’re an asshole.”

The less strings the better.

That’s the thought he has when James breathes a cutting laugh that ghosts over the edge of his jaw, the brand of fingers, marking, at his hip. Hands wrapping up in the chain of Kendall’s tags, dragging him forward.

He is low and sibilant in his ear, a throaty, “Why don’t you get on your hands and knees for me.”

Before he shoves him towards the mattress.

Kendall stumbles, boots catching; ancient springs that complain when he lands on top of them. He glowers at the proudly-entertained expression that casts down at him, that rubs him in all the right and wrong ways, abrasive and hot.

James adds on like an explanation, a single eyebrow raised- does away with another fragment of his armor, slow and impending- “Dogs do it doggie-style.”

Kendall pulls at his belt, grinds out, “I’d be careful.” The object clinks as it hits the stained rug. “I’ve heard dogs _bite_ mailmen.”

James’ eyes trailblaze over him, “I’m counting on it.”

And James pulls his shirt over his head.

Kendall has no idea where it lands. Is busy swallowing down a noise that probably would’ve embarrassed the hell out of him, can’t help but palm himself through the material that still sheathes his erection.

And he doesn’t know how long he openly ogles at the cut of James’ torso - the sharply-defined dips and grooves, the tight wave of muscle beneath old bruises and healing cuts, tanned skin marred with white streaks - as if he’s never seen one before, before James is wrenching him up by the chin, kissing him fierce and wet, straining out a “Flip. _Over_ ,” that reverberates its way down to Kendall’s cock.

What he really wants to do is lick a stripe up James’ chest, trace the nonsensical patterns on it, tongue flat against his navel, curve his fingers over and into the severe valleys of him, feel those muscles shift beneath his lips-- but he flips onto his hands and knees, not because James _told him to_ , though. Just, getting fucked was another activity high up on his ‘want’ list at the moment and, James was-

 _Shit_ …

All else aside, James was every single one of his eighteen-year old wet dreams, and, okay, nineteen. From that torturous period of time when he was suddenly surrounded by ripe-aged guys who trained sweaty and determined underneath the Mojave sun, who stripped to wash off with dirty water like he wasn’t even there. Who too-often forced touchy-touchy camaraderie upon him. It was too-much-too-fast, then, going from _Goodsprings_ to- to _that,_  so young. And of course he got over it, got used to it, grew up and learned the amount of neglect towards your dick that came with close quarters and around-the-clock duties and…illiberality of who you wanted on it or touched by.

Getting stiff at impromptu times just wasn’t an option.

The one month he took a liking to his new commanding officer at twenty-two was a nightmare because of that, who was…

Nothing compared to James now that he thinks back on it.

He’s older now, but he’s also going on _who-knows-how-long_ of practicing involuntary-teetotalism. Which is, not only beyond frustrating because, sex was great. But.

Sometimes feeling the press of another body above you, the weight pinning you, present and grounding, ungiving and _real_ \- sometimes it was the only way to feel _anything_. Sometimes.

And James was fire. Flames that crackled and hissed and destroyed. Burned full-bodied and all-consuming. Kendall wanted to feel that. Introduce it straight into his veins, into the chambers and valves of his chest. The cord of his spine. That, instead- instead of…

So his breath hitches when he feels the bed dip behind him, toes curling in the boots no one fucking bothered to take off, a faint shadow swathing over the used-to-be-white bed sheets.

And James breathes, devout and religiously, deviant against the brutal tear of Kendall’s khakis down to hitch around his thighs, “You’re going to beg so good, soldier boy…”

Kendall quakes. Breathes shallow, tremulous as hands skim up to grab unforgiving at his ass, to spread him apart. Jolts, as a thumb runs a harsh line against the crevice of him, once and again, _kneads_ , “How long has it been for you?” James asks, half-amused, all serrated. Esurient.

And Kendall’s teeth click together, “Awhile- doesn’t matter,” huffs, “Just,” rocks his hips back, impatient, bites his lip at the pressure, the unsmooth catch of James’ skin until one of those hands disappear, leaves him cold.

There’s hesitation, a “You sure?” and a touch returning, slick, prodding.

Kendall doesn’t know how he feels about the tender note in James’ voice, the way its rasp is rounded out at the edges, the way it peaks up at the end-- he swallows, something murky crawling up through his chest.

What he does know, is how he feels about the tip of James’ finger probing home inside of him.

He drops his head, moans quiet like a revelation. Knows it is all he needs, answers, “Y-yeah,” prompts, encourages small, because it is _not at all enough_ , “Come on,” as sheets slip under his boots, slide, fail to find traction.

The loss of his touch again is near-agony, but the sound of a belt and the sharp rustle of leather sings to Kendall more than any music that’d played in the theatre. It carries to him over the echoed drone of voices through the wall, a couple arguing. Loud over the metallic bang of pipes and the structure of the building protesting against gravity, the flickering buzz of dingy lights fighting death.

And James sighs, deep and bitten off, spits, a wet glide adding to the noise of the room and Kendall can’t quite stifle the countertenor and pathetic something that escapes his throat. Imagining the sight of James, taking himself in his hand, eyes hooded and dark, stroking languid.

He melds desperate into the contact that resurrects itself at his hip, brow furrowed, and he pants, strung and appetent while James shifts, closer, comments, “So deprived,” with a barely brush of his cock along the crease of Kendall’s ass, the heat of him _fucking teasing_. Kendall jerks towards it.

Rolls out like gravel, “ _James_ -” muscles tense and faltering.

James nudges forward, opening him up before falling back, caressing without breach and he is _thick_ and Kendall _aches_ , dick twitching against his stomach. Delivers his dignity up on a silver platter when he admits defeat with a single sound ripped from his core.

“What’s the matter, Major?” James husks, and, James:

James is a contradiction.

Growling out vicious words that cut and slice into Kendall’s flesh and bones, resonating sharp; one set of fingers digging merciless and condemning, damning; nails pinning him up on a cross.

This, as another touch soothes over him, brief, sporadically; a palm burnishing, now and again, mending the cracks, creases, fractures he is creating in the man below him.

He breathes out, harsh and noisy, wanton.

A mend. A break.

James drives the head of his cock, just, inside him and Kendall falls, lets his arms cave from under him, forehead pressing against a mattress that emits the sudor of a thousand people. Kendall does not _care_. He is arching, begging _please_ , tearing at those grimy sheets like they’ve personally wronged him.

And Kendall wants to sob, is surprised tears aren’t trailing down his face, cleaning streaks of dirt and dust away, because- he _needs_ it, needs James _further_ and needs to be _whole_ because he is so so empty- _so fucking empty_ \- and he is weary and he is spent and _please please please James please._

That soothing touch comes home, at the base of his spine, palm flat, fingers spread. There might be a mutter, a sigh, a promise - _we’ll fix you_ \- but Kendall does not know over the severe push of his lungs, air puffing out mean, shameful noises, the fierce yearning of his heartbeat.

Over the cry that scrapes its way from Kendall’s throat as James encases himself fully and absolute inside of him.

And Kendall babbles as James’ warrants a rugged sound of relief, his hold morphing aggressive, strong hands dragging Kendall back, flush, by the hips, bruising.

Kendall grits out, begs, James and James and _James_ and fuck and yes and _move_ \- o god _move_ \- please move.

And James does, rocks smooth and thrusts forceful, semi-slick skin catching inside of him. Dragging raw, skirting along the border of punishment and redemption. Kendall pushes back into it, welcoming and encouraging and James grunts, the sound of sharp teeth and hunger and the desire to tear him apart. As if he wants to.

Kendall wishes he would.

Loud and urgeful, libertine, into sheets that have heard it all before, half-catches orison words, like colorful shards of glass, broken from old church windows, resemble “god, look at you. Like you were made for taking cock,” and-

“Knew you had twink hips under that uniform.” Spoken through bone.

Kendall gasps. Ragged. Indignance dying on his tongue, buried deep beneath waves of amperes that run and tide, electric, febrile, send shivers of white-hot want down from the very tips of his fingers to the inner of his upper thighs.

He tries, chokes out a mutated version of James’ name over the slap of skin and the clangor of his dog tag’s colliding, synced with the tempo of their bodies. But James knows. Clear with the way he rolls into the same angle, pitiless. Again and again, over and over. Kindles his nerves crimson and rife, the lambency of New Vegas’ glitz, glamour and flashy-flashy signs.

And his skin is baking. Glows radioactive and nuclear, red and sweat that coat dermally as he broils from the inside out, turning to ash, lungs Wasteland-dry.

He’s teetering near the edge, at the brink, fingers digging too tight too tight on that rocky cliff of nowhere, clings to it, desperate and stricken and unable to let go, even as it leaves him bloody, scrapes and cuts cruel, wears him down until there is nothing left.

But a body plasters itself across Kendall’s back, and Kendall bends into it - reflexive, grateful, so fucking grateful - into the planes of it, pliant, fits himself into all the nooks and crannies of the brawn that lines complete against him. A hand wrapping where Kendall is wound taut, a mouth latching to the blade of his shoulder, a notch of his spine, adds to a heat that is already asphyxiating, smothering.

And Kendall cries out, a sound that is the splinter and fragments of destroyed buildings. Nails lethal where they can reach, a timed calloused rhythm over his cock he ruts to and away from, frantic and muscles threatening to abandon him.

And, James. James speaks, low, into the curve of his ear, indecipherable whispers into his hair, dotted with Kendall’s name like Morse code. Doesn’t know what he says, what those string of syllables mean, but, James is there.

James is there. With him. Heavy inside of him, solid and stable at his back, an image in his head.

Kendall’s mouth gapes. Veins snapping like wires and circuitry gone wrong, fibrously, through his limbs and down his spine, trembles that resonate robust and total, spills over James’ fist, a noise catching in his throat, comes out silent.

He has a total of three seconds to collapse limp, shake fatigued as he revels mindlessly in the aftermath, before James is removing himself indelicate, flipping him onto his back.

A mattress spring prods at the base of his spine.

His eyes take time to focus, to find James perched on his knees between the gap of Kendall’s thighs.

And Kendall swallows, gazes up at him lazy and sated and- very…very appreciative, because, James is…James is definitely…fuck- it’s really-

He has enough left in him to acknowledge he should probably help with that- _wants_ to help James’ cock, that still juts out, so he reaches.

Until James knocks his hand away, has enough snark left in him to smirk triumphant and breathy, “Down boy.” And Kendall would protest, really, if he wasn’t so exhausted and the view wasn’t so pretty. Kendall’s never been a fan of the look-don’t-touch and, yeah, only getting to look at a cock that nice wasn’t fair in any world ever, but. The view _was_ really…really pretty.

Kendall realizes he’s halfway to gone, halfway to not-all-the-way-there as he stares enamored with hooded eyes, at James, who takes the needy-red weight of himself into the circle of his palm, the pearly-white of Kendall on his fist, strokes relentless and determined, hazel searing over Kendall’s sprawled limbs and still-heaving chest, hair sweat-matted and ruffled.

And Kendall doesn’t know whether to come again or devour every single detail for memory, first. Because, James was a masterpiece; stark against a backdrop of destruction, a god framed by crumbling ceilings and walls and a clock frozen at 9:47, failing air vents and those buzzing lights. There was the coil in his arms, wrapped in flushed skin that dripped the temperature of the Mojave, one hand keeping open the spread of Kendall’s legs, as far as they could sheathed in the hitched-down trousers of his uniform. And he gets to see what those sounds earlier look like, how James’ face worked to make them, the muscle in his jaw and the dip in his brow and the tensing of his marred abdominals.

Kendall can’t help but arch, slight, neck bowed, breathe, “god,” a little too high-pitched, despite the thrumming exhaustion.

And James comes. So fucking pretty, the way his lashes flutter and.

That’s the last thing he sees, before consciousness decides he’s on his own: streaks of James landing across his torso, a splatter on his khaki’s-- the warmth that dabs the whetted wiry topography of Kendall’s stomach that used to shape the blades of his ribs when he was just some starving naive kid playing in the lamented sands of Nevada.

And umber damnation that belongs to a head of dark-hair haloed by blurring lights.

Kendall can’t say he minds.

There’s been a lot worse burned into the dark of his eyelids.

* * *

 

He almost forgets where he is.

Coming to in the pitch black of a room. Familiar traces of a familiar dream dodging between thoughts of alarm and disorientation. The crimson of blood and heat and venom. Screams and acuate edges that cut deadly deep. Overlays vague shadowy outlines of doors, walls, furniture.

Then there’s the unfamiliar: the mass of another body beside him, the vulnerability from a lack of armor, a lack of a weapon within reach. The brush of sheets against the bare skin of his back, his calves, his feet. The stillness.

Kendall holds his breath. Listens to the steady _in out in_ of air somewhere above his head, can feel it disturb strands of hair, flashes of however-long-ago slipping back like jagged puzzles pieces to the thud of a heartbeat in his ears. A drum against his sternum.

He worms a hand out, careful, reaching through the darkness until unsteady fingertips graze the jut of a hip bone, lax muscles.

James’ name pierces through his mind in the form of a desperate cry, the memory of a burn inside of him, a gape in the pit of his stomach.

A prospectiveness that sparks underneath the pad of his thumb.

Kendall’s hand flinches back. He exhales through his nose, pressure in his lungs releasing regretful, eyes clenched useless.

 _Idiot_.

He should’ve had, like, way more to drink. Could’ve blamed this shit on inebriation.

And his better judgement was coming on, could feel it barging forward with logic and remorse, all the reasons this was wrong, or wrong, or, really wrong.

Kendall retreats from it, untangles himself from the bed with far less grace than he should have if he wants to delay a confrontation for as long as respectably possible.

 _Delay_ , because, Kendall knows he won’t leave. Not yet.

At least not while he was still avoiding that reunion with judgement. They’d make up later. Probably. It usually forgave him.

It doesn’t help that his clothes are completely gone now, khakis and boots shucked to the side where he almost stumbles over them. Or that his torso was wiped clean of-

Kendall winces. Maybe he should thank whatever supreme being that was still hanging around up there that he was just…alive. Passing out like that most likely wasn’t in any Wasteland Survival Guide. James could’ve offed him. Got what he wanted and washed his hands of it.

So, yeah. He should feel way fucking lucky.

Instead he feels nauseous. Wired. His nerves brimming electric.

And hungry. God. Very, very hungry.

He grabs his pants up off of the floor, finds a shirt to slip over his head, keeps alert the regularity of James’ breathing as he glances at the Pip-Boy glowing faint from its perch on the nightstand.

It’s bulky in his hands when he picks it up out of curiosity, clasp rattling slight, green reflecting up at him. A figure smiles, displays health stats and rad levels and inventory. Reads 12.24.81 03:52 in a tab labeled _Data_.

He doesn’t know how many hours that means it’s been. But the casino carries on as it was, unaffected by their absence, as Kendall walks back through it, past the slots and towards the door to the Tops’ food supply he refuses to call a restaurant.

There’s only one other patron enclosed in the space of fake plants and odd light fixtures that hang dicey from the ceiling, a clash of faded colored furniture and littered glass bottles - the yellow of Sunset Sarsaparilla, the red of Nuka-Cola.

They sit hunched over a bowl of something unidentifiable, not eating. Staring.

Kendall surveils them out of the corner of his eye, tosses the last few of his caps up on the counter for the vendor. Wrestles with the idea he should grab something for…

He bites his lip. As if _Courier Six_ couldn’t afford the whole stock here.

Kendall exhales, asks reluctant, anyway. “You guys take NCR bills?”

Like, doubtful.

It was great and all the Republic was trying to bring back an pre-War-esque system, but being paid in a devalued currency most vendors turned their noses at wasn’t ideal when you were already scraping by as it was.

The Chairman’s worker confirms it with a brushed-off, “Sorry, kid,” royally unsympathetic, swipes dust off of the bar with a stained rag and a pinched expression, “you know where the exchange office is.”

He does. Casino’s were useful in trading out NCR money for bottlecaps, did it often so he’d have something spendable to send back to Goodsprings.

It was a bum deal. Better than nothing.

Kendall drums his fingers against the countertop, clenched jaw. Slides the Vault-Tec branded beer he was just given back towards the vendor, “Just…whatever food you’ve got then.” Receives a shrug.

He grabs what’s set in front of him, a box so faded he’s unable to read the label on it, a can of baked beans already in his hands as he falls into a booth, his back propped against the quirky-patterned wall. The two entrances in sight.

The Chairman standing on the other side of the room, a guard with too-yellow hair, eyes the other occupant of the room, who’s still in the exact position they were when Kendall’d walked in.

The reason, though, could be one of two things: Yellow Hair thinks the figure is just as suspicious as Kendall’d thought, and is concerned for the casino. Or, Yellow Hair feels they’re not quite making the cut of “not riff-raff,” and is concerned for the casino.

Not like there were many debonair high-classers in the Wastes, but New Vegas seemed picky on who did and who didn’t get to stroll the Strip. There was a credit check at the North gate, patrolled by House’s Securitrons. Kendall didn’t know if he would’ve actually been able to scrounge together whatever amount of caps were needed to pass through, but it was a moot point within NCR. He could enter through the LVB station, use the monorail from McCarren; everyone else had to make the walk through Freeside.

He’s never been there, before, but apparently “Freeside” was the type House wanted to keep out of New Vegas. Probably to keep up the Old World ruse of it. Golden girls and superstars.

Maybe the person in the corner was a little too “Freeside,” then. Maybe a chem addict. Which, not like Gomorrah and the Tops were against chem-use. Just against patrons bringing the vibe of the casino down with them.

Personally, crazed skeletal characters with ghostly eyes and patchwork arms made Kendall want to buy another drink, so. He didn’t see who was losing here.

He also doesn’t get how the person’d gotten in. It didn’t look too much like they were basking in the New Vegas affluence, like they could afford the credit check - was it a couple thousand? - they just looked…

Kendall swallows, drops his eyes back down to his lone can, a brown sludge deadpanning up at him.

They were at least good for a reminder to take it slow.

Human bodies were fickle. And he wasn’t too keen on the idea of vomiting the last of his paycheck today.

He glances at the faded box - pretty sure it used to be red, he’s thinking Salisbury - can’t help but wonder if James was still asleep back up in that suite of his. If he’d even still be there when Kendall went back up.

‘Course, James might not even _want_ to see him. Could’ve been expecting Kendall to disappear like anyone else with any kind of sense _at all_ would have done. Kendall doesn’t, apparently. Have sense.

The unsettling part was that he was actually _worried_ over it.

It was the definite least of his problems right now. Bottom-feeder of that pyramid. Yet it was sticking sickly persistent to the forefront of his mind.

His mouth twists bitter.

 _Oh, woe. I got fucked by an attractive man. What to do, what to do_.

It was kind of ashaming. Framed by the sight of that hunched patron.

Here he was overthinking the possibility of his actions leading to- to what? Getting rejected?

A better question would be this, always this: could any of his actions lead to blood being spilled. To death. His own, or, otherwise.

Kendall cleans his fingers off on the side of his uniform pants, vaguely notes it’s James shirt he’s wearing. Breathes steady, out through his nose.

Thinks, _yeah_ , that was the big question. That was where the money lied.

Thing was, Kendall already knew the answer to it.

It’s like he said. Everything out here - every road, every route, every decision, every thought you even considered having - all of it. All of it was one step closer to death.

You could only guess. When your blood would finally color the Mojave pretty.

It was a lot like roulette.

He nearly bolts from the room. Sprinting along the endless wooden track of a little wheel.

_red black odds evens a range of numbers from double zero to thirty-six_

Too bad no one had the option to cash out.

* * *

 

The sound of the door could be a Fat Man detonation with the way it creaks on its hinges, rattles shut behind him. Loud against the echoes of all the things your ears grow used to.

Kendall waits, eyes adjusting to the dark, to the image of James still lounged across the mattress, sheets arranged around him in this ridiculously artful way.

He ends up glaring at it, at the indistinct shape of James’ arm, the length of his legs, the muscle of an exposed thigh. The line of his jaw and the slope of his nose that blurs under the absence of light.

Maybe this is what those artists painted to.

What they’d think of when they made scenes that could be photographs or those splashes of color no one could make sense of. Those crumbled and broken pieces of stone that were probably once carved amazing.

_He doesn’t belong here._

Belonged in a frame. Captured on a canvas by some dead man he’s more than likely come across in a book that was too boring to get through.

But not here.

Nothing in the Wasteland was suppose to entertain sick fantasies of living for anything other than survival.

“You’re not gonna stand there and stare at me all morning, are you?”

James’ voice is dry as sand, grumbled, almost startles Kendall from where he’s fixtured, eyes snapping up from where they linger.

James breathes a groan as he shifts, stretches in a way that should be lewd.

“I, uh,” clears his throat, “I brought you…” whatever the fuck it was. Kendall throws it in the general direction of the bed - maybe not the best idea to be flinging things around in the dark but James catches it, already propped up sitting.

Declaring, “You’re a peach,” clueless that Kendall has no clue what that means, before reaching to place the box up next to his Pip-Boy.

Kendall protests. “You haven’t eaten.”

“I appreciate it,” a sincere curve to his lips, illuminated by the sudden appearance of a lighter flame, says as a cigarette is popped between them, “I do. But I’m fine.”

He shrugs awkward, watches wary and unsure as James takes a drag and leans himself against the headboard. It creaks a whine.

And Kendall feels caged all over again.

James just looks amused, eyes shining in the dim room, “You okay?”

Wow.

Good one.

Kendall snorts, ends up being honest, a jaundiced, “Rarely.” Fingers running through his hair as he plops down at the foot of the bed, James in his peripheral, who visibly sobers. He sees the glow of the cigarette lower.

The sheets rustle, “…You know you can leave, right?” Kendall’s breath hitches. “I won’t track you down,” with the tactless punchline of, “I mean, unless someone pays me to.”

Yeah, that was the problem, though. Kendall _did_ know, that he could leave. But he hasn’t. And he doesn’t know _why_.

He swallows, curls a tight fist around his dog tags, feels them warm under his touch, their honed edges digging harsh, the embossed ridge of symbols that define who he is. Branded.

And, of course, James hits the target, dead-on, needles, “Or…you can stay.” Says it mindful, loaded, underlined with all kinds of indecipherable implications and-

It doesn’t help, doesn’t keep it from blasting through him like a well-aimed buckshot.

Doesn’t keep him from taking off his boots, shucking his fatigues all over again, falling in next to James against that creaking headboard.

And James doesn’t comment. Looks like it takes a lot of effort for him not to. Kendall steals the smoke from between his fingers, pulls from it like it’s his last share of air.

It’s funny. He’d probably gotten more sleep earlier than he had in a long time. God, he’s never felt more exhausted.

Well, no, that wasn’t true. The situation was fucking with him. He’s had plenty more times where his body had nothing left, where he’d marched miles with his eyes closed, where his head would spin and buzz and scream, a battle of livewire numbness and pleading muscles.

The ache in his eye sockets, though, was zilch compared to nights of those horrid thoughts he puts everything he has into blocking out. To hours beneath the sun wondering _why_ and _why_ and **_why_ ** _did it have to be like this_ and _why am I doing this what was the point what was the fucking point anymore I hate this I hate this_ **_I hate this_** _._

No. No, it wasn’t the blinding hunger or the sickness mangling its way through you or the nightmares that kept you from sleeping that got to him. Not watching comrades torn to shreds in front of your eyes, their blood splattering warm on your face, not the constant need to stay alert or keep paranoid or not being able to ever really _trust_ anyone. It was all he knew; the dirt in his lungs, the rads in his system, the crippling fear of the Legion hedging close.

It was the realization all of it could end up being for absolutely _nothing_.

You get through one day and then the next. And then the next and the next and the next and the _next_ until you just…don’t. One day you just _don’t_.

And you’re a corpse on the ground. Of some dusty trashed forgotten building or in the gaping maw of the Wastes. Maybe nameless, more than likely left unburied. A hollowed-out rotting feast for some mutated abomination, another pocket to loot for a wanderer. Eyes glassy until they’re gone. Thanks to, god, fucking anything. A strung-out bloodthirsty raider that catches you off guard, radiation, a drink of water, an infected wound, a stray frag mine, a _dog_ that doesn’t like the look of you.

A stranger you decided to fuck.

Kendall exhales, doddered, scratches at the arch of his eyebrow, teeth clenched. It’s so hard to breathe in these rooms.

Could he blame the lack of air for the fact he was still sitting next to Courier Six in under-clothes, then? Or would that be the _rationalization_ shit Katie kept accusing him of?

His head slams back against splintered wood, hears James say, “Wanna know what I think?”

 _Yes_. “No.”

“You think too much,” is offered anyways.

 _Obviously_ ; he rebuts through his teeth, “You don’t think _enough_.”

“Maybe. But I’m still alive and kicking. Yah know, without whatever shit is going on in your head right now.” Has a half-hearted smirk in his voice. Prys the cigarette back.

And Kendall doesn’t think James is a very practical reference to go by in this situation, but it’d be nice. Not to have whatever shit is going on in his head right now, going on his head right now. Or ever. Always, constant and reliable to scream admonishing screechy painful droning pestering reviling and _honest_. A loyal companion.

But he also doesn’t _believe_ James. “Don’t tell me you never…- that you don’t…” he tries. Knees drawing in close to protect him from all the things you can’t see, can’t touch. Can’t deep-six with a plasma rifle.

There’s a pause, a moment Kendall’s assertion hangs in the air, clings to his tongue unfinished, shredded in tatters with the dust and rot.

“About what?” James asks, like he knows. Just doesn’t want to.

And Kendall gusts a laugh, a bitter sound. Fuck, just, “Everything.” Hates how it rings defeated.

James breathes out from beside him; Kendall watches, tilts his head as the faintest contour of smoke slinks twiny from his lips. Watches him decide, “It’s pointless.” Words of history spoken on a cloud of toxins, a memory embracing fumes. Ghosts that shift disturbed.

Kendall’s eyes fall from them, down to the crude designs on James’ torso, “Isn’t all of it?” Asks, croaky and weak. Nails curl, stab into the skin of his legs.

“…You don’t really believe that.” James is looking at him. Kendall is looking at edge of the bed sheet that slips low at James’ hip.

He wishes he did. Wishes he believed that. Sometimes.

He’s weary from it. Caring. It felt like it took so much out of him anymore.

It’d be easier that way; easier to think that hope was useless, that it wasn’t worth it. Easier to give up. Just commit to the idea already, completely, wholly, instead of flirting with it at unexpected moments where suddenly he forgets how to use his lungs, use his legs to pick him up, his feet to _move_ -

“So what if I did?” Rivals through teeth and over the heavy surge of his heart, too heavy inside of his ribcage, crushing and snapping all of the will and purpose he’s built up.

He replaces the sheet that covers James’ lap with himself-

and James is still staring up at him in way Kendall doesn’t get.

The mask he hid behind was so pretty. The sleek metal of a pointed barrel under the Mojave sun. Kendall wonders what he looks like underneath it. Wants to take him apart and put him back together. See what makes him tick.

“Get that I’m not being honest with you because I _trust_ you- because _I don’t,_ ” Kendall forces out, grip tight over the top rim of the headboard, falters, “I just don’t want-”

He feels like he’s choking on it, shakes his head. Doesn’t continue because he knows he doesn’t need to.

It’s said through a hand brushing his side, confirmed through the careful movements of fingertips. Careful, like James is tracing one of those memories.

Strange, because, memories weren’t so fragile. They haunted strong. Hung around persistent. Could bring you to your knees during combat, abrupt, wake you to a cold sweat and unsympathetic eyes.

The good, the bad; they all stung the same.

“You’re so convinced I’m working for Caesar,” James muses, coy.

Kendall shifts under his touch, searches his expression.

That wasn’t it. He’s just not so convinced James _isn’t_. “Are you?”

James grins, leisured, “You’d believe me,” flicks underneath the shirt Kendall wears, appraising, “if I said no?”

Kendall squints. Chews at his bottom lip, and James’ face speaks as if the silence is all he needs to hear.

And it is. There was no other way to put it.

But, truthfully? Kendall doesn’t know. If, right now, he could swear he wouldn’t fall for any beautiful lies, promises that slipped from James’ lips.

His hand brings itself to trail James’ neck, down to his shoulder: a shadowed apology he hates himself for allowing, “…Why? Got something to fess up?”

“I’m a lot of things,” he admits on that flash of teeth, debates, “an advocate for despotism isn’t really one of them.”

Kendall quirks an eyebrow. Knows better than to take that as an affirmative. You didn’t have to _agree_ with something to do its bidding, not if it meant saving your own skin.

It wasn’t hard for people to sell freedom, not when the alternative was worse.

But he doesn’t pry, takes what he can get. It’s his turn with the cigarette.

“Impressive vocabulary. Guessing you can read, then.”

Both of James’ hands are free to slip under the hem of Kendall’s- well, James’- shirt, now, etch shapes into his waistline.

A disinterested, “It comes in handy,” while Kendall reaches to tap into the ashtray. When he settles back?

James is somewhere else.

Kendall waits. The warmth of breath against his collarbone.

“You said you had family. In Goodsprings,” A liberal prompt, arcane-purposed.

Kendall hesitates, “My mom. My little sister,” says it clipped, short, makes it clear he’s not about to start divulging information on the only thing that keeps him ramrod.

But James’ eyes are down, only the lids of them and a fan of lashes that show.

“Your dad?” Comes out like a joke they’re both in on.

He inflicts the punchline, “Same place everyone else’s is.” Over yonder in who-the-fuck-knows.

He doesn’t blame them. Maybe it’s nicer there. Loiters on that, as he skirts bruised knuckles between the muscle of James’ pecs.

Kendall opens his mouth, subtle, “Are yours…?”

“Might as well be,” he offhands, palms moving down the tops of Kendall’s thighs, thumbs grazing underneath the start of his boxers.

It sinks into him, those words, the _idea_. Surfaces images and scenarios he’s all too familiar with.

There was a neverending amount of time to imagine what he could come to home to- so much of it, all the different ways he could walk into town and see- to- to find- _god_ and the bodies were always- everywhere and countless- _mangled_ and _the blood-_

And their _eyes_.

He couldn’t- not now, fuck, _not here_.

“Her name was Jo-”

Restates, “The person who…” presses his lips together against his belated answer, told on a trembled breath, blurted careless, “Jo and her dad came to town and, uh. Me and her…I mean she was-” Kendall winces, avoids James’ eyes. Forces, “…I didn’t- know what it was like. To actually _tell someone_ how scared I was,” it catches in his throat, pitches like a question, reveals itself through the shake in his hands. He presses one flat against James’ chest, tries to still it.

Kendall sighs, sharp, follows the bricolage of cracks on the ceiling with his eyes, “When Jo came to me and asked…said she trusted me.” He shakes his head, watches the story unfold there, narrated like constellations between peeling scars of nuclear warfare. Ends, “Not even a week later they were gone.”

Lessons were always learned fast, young.

10 years and Jo was still beacon, warning dangers in front of him, reminding him what happens when you forget the Wastes own you forever, unconditionally. Her smile in the back of his mind lighting all the reasons why all you ever really had was yourself, why letting yourself get close to someone was a mistake.

And James was blinding.

Which is ironic. Because he knows what Jo would’ve wanted him to do. About- this. And he knows he would’ve listened. Back then.

It is exactly why he’s choosing the opposite.

So it terrifies him. When, after a long stretch of silence and wandering hands, James returns the favor. Finally lets Kendall in on something, _of all things_. Commits, “It was a customer.”

Hard, factual.

And Kendall’s brow furrows, doesn’t quite put that together.

Until, “I was new at my job, ended up losing a package I was suppose to deliver,” toned derisory, “I’d already spent the caps, so,” James traces a finger down Kendall’s arm, trails it with his eyes, “…So they told me I could repay them a different way.”

Kendall stills, James’ touch stopping at the inside crease of his elbow, lingering.

He feels him shrug, small, beneath him, “I didn’t say no.”

And Kendall remembers, realizes. That statement that rung passionate and sworn:

_Let’s get one thing straight. I don’t sell my ass for anyone._

He swallows, warns, “James-” but it’s barely a whisper, barely firm, his grip shrinking away from where it was planted against a bicep.

It was too deep- too much.

_He doesn’t want to hear this._

Not this. _Not this_.

A hold clamps around his wrists.

No. A caress, a reassurance. Not trapping him there.

“I told you, you could leave- and I meant it.”

It’s a promise.

Both of them knew Kendall didn’t want to, though, it wasn’t that.

After.

 _After_ is what mattered.

That this is all it would ever- _could_ ever- be. This time on the Strip, this moment in the darkness of a Tops suite.

He didn’t want it to see the sun, let it blossom into something that would just die like everything else.

He didn’t want to go back out there.

Not yet.

Not yet.

He amasses smoke into his lungs, greedy, draws deep and quavered. Claws a hand behind James’ neck before leaning down.

And James lets Kendall breathe it into him, that smoke inhaled on a fear. Share it with lips brushing, almost not, crescent-shapes nicked into skin where their fingers lay.

He keeps his eyes closed, once he runs out of air. Their mouths hovering together, fugitive.

Yeah. Just this moment. He could say he succumbed to New Vegas’ appeal. For this man who barricaded everything up tight except for the things that could burrow under your skin, fester there and bring you down. For this man who was turning out to be the key to the Second Battle. For this man who sparkled out of place in the Mojave but fit-in just fine.

Kendall was wrong. James did belong here.

Shining carmine-painted desolation, stunning. Brush strokes on a russet landscape, giving you everything you couldn’t have.

Right now, though? Kendall was going to try.

To have James under the callouses of his hands, to have James’ teeth underneath his tongue. To have the hard weight of James frictioned against the yearn in his groin. To taste his fingertips, to hear the throaty sounds he makes as he bites his lip, to feel those hands tighten in his hair, tugging harsh and knowing.

To follow the redpinkwhite paths and routes engraved permanent across James’ body like it was a map to salvation.

And for a second?

He could almost pretend he found it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen. Let's not pretend. Post-Apocalyptic Sex is nasty. NAZ. TEE.


	4. These Beatings Will Continue (Until Morale Improves)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But for words he’s never ever had any intention of uttering, for words that are so buried deep under an agonizing panic in his chest? They feel a whole fucking lot like they’re on the tip of his tongue at times.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My explanation for the extreme gap in updates are as follows:  
> Short-staffed job. Moving. Significant other. Very busy beta.
> 
> I'll have my boss send each and every three of you a sincere apology letter. Pinky-dinky swears.

* * *

_Listen to me, he said, when your dreams are of some world that never was or some world that never will be, and you're happy again, then you'll have given up. Do you understand? And you can't give up, I won't let you._

* * *

 

_01.05.82_

\---

“Tuck your elbow, Grady… _Grady-_ ”

“ _I got it_. Heard you the first six times.”

“Yeah? Then that’s six whole times you haven’t _listened_. Shoot again. Preferably _at_ the target.”

Debris crumbles down on impact, another cranny in the cinderblock of their backdrop, while Grady is busy huffing.

It’s one of those days the wind refuses to show; the already parched air blazing, thermobaric. Six empty water bottles stack up at the edge of the range, ditched in the dirt. He’s two down for the rest of the week.

It’s exactly the kind of day where _anyone_ should have the decency _not_ to be a pain in the ass.

But people always seem to ignore said memo.

Grady was one of them.

Grady, who was stubborn. And, also, pretty crumb with a rifle, which makes this all the more miserable for everyone. Everyone, being, the two of them and the girl.

The girl, who wasn’t terrible, at least. Didn’t _talk_ nearly as much either.

“Murphey, breathe. Exhale before you take the shot.” And she does. Visibly relaxes into the prone position her and the kid are in.

See? Not as pain-in-the-ass.

Kendall appreciates that. Three hours of watching the rookie duo waste ammo on a wall should be deserving of _something_. Less backtalk, for instance.

His name is called out, then, a “Knight!” over the sound of boots thumping concrete earth, approaching. Kendall doesn’t have to look up to place a name to the voice, “Good to see your sunshiny mug back in McCarran, pal.”

“Not for long.” He slaps at a pest on the back of his neck, “Think they want me to head out tomorrow.”

Reyes makes a face, loud whispers, “You finally escape the corral and get pinned with the cherries?”

Kendall snorts. “Got to spend an assload of time maintaining your platoons raunchy sidearms, too.”

“Hey,” a mock reproach, ”Careful how you talk about my Suzy.”

“ _Your Suzy_ should’ve been cleaned and lubed up months ago.”

“Yeesh, Knight, that’s private,” covers his hand over the pistol’s grip like he’s covering her- christ- _its_ ears, “Don’t be bitter us meat-eaters actually get to use ours.”

“Like that’s something to brag about.”

“Yeah, yeah. I gotcha,” he settles, toeing at a sandbag of the barrier, “You look, uh. You look better though. The OP been treatin’ you nice?”

Kendall gives him an incredulous side-eye. Counteracts, “Like hell.”

Putting the word _nice_ anywhere near mention of the Mojave Outpost is outrageous and goes against everything he believes in.

If he looks any parody of better, it’s because an incomplete transfer form wasn’t currently scowling up at him. Grady’s unremarkable marksman stance wasn’t much of an upgrade, but, hey, he’ll take it. Two out of three times at least.

“Huh,” and he gets a once-over, “Wishful thinking. ‘Least you’re here on a good day. I hear the big _celebrity_ ’s on site.”

Kendall swings his head toward him _real_ fast, takes in the smugly eager stretch of his lips, “Who?”

Reyes rolls his eyes, nonchalant, “Come on, man,” announces all ersatz-fancy and way-too-drawn-out, “ _Courier Six_.”

And Kendall has to act like that means little. Yah know, like how Reyes is acting all ‘ _jokingly’_ excited.

Please. Guy’s smiling like an idiot, a little pep in his movements to top it all off.

He might be annoyed if it wasn’t so comical. And Kendall doesn’t want to crush his hopes and dreams, but, “Oh.”

It’s plenty unenthused. Enough for Reyes to question it.

“Nothing. He’s just, I dunno. A jackass?”

“You’ve met ‘em?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Funny,” he remarks, though, “You’re not actually the first I’ve heard say that.” That’s news to Kendall. Not surprising news, but news. “Well, not in those words. More often disrespectful. Less often snot-nosed brat.”

Awh. And here he’d thought James saved all that ribald and discourtesy just for him.

“You’d think with all he’s done for the brass they’d speak more highly- not that they don’t. But-” Reyes grins, “Boyd shoulda been a giveaway; don’t have to be all that mannerly to help some folk out I guess.”

Kendall shrugs, “Charitable asshole.”

“Sorrier things to be called I suppose.”

Yeah. He can think of a few.

Reyes tips his headgear back, peers around the camp, along the tents, troopers milling in and out, “Gonna be guarding the Southern with me later?”

Kendall’s head tilts towards Murphey and Grady, lower, “I’m with bolo and the girl till 1500.”

“Bring ‘em with,” he says, obvious.

“ _Please_ don’t give them any ideas.”

“Why not? What’s better practice than shootin’ at live targets - I mean, I’ll tell ya. I wasn’t all that great an aim either ‘til it was bullseye or, well. You know what them Fiends do.”

A furrow in his brow, “Reyes. They’re not ready. Ice it.”

“ _Knight_. You need it. Trust me,” continues over Kendall’s sigh, squeezes his shoulder fierce, “Listen. I’ll even run it past ol’ Hsu for you. He’s breathin’ a little easier today with our boy around, so it’ll be smooth. Promise.”

Reyes misses his frown at that. _Our boy_ . Hell, he shouldn’t care, but. Like the NCR _owns_ the courier. Doesn’t know which part of that unsettles him more: that they’ve, what? Become so dependent on his allegiance?

Or- okay. Kendall lithely evades the other part.

“Hey, shit, speak o’ the devil,” hand slipping down from Kendall’s arm, “That him?” Glances his way brief for confirmation.

Kendall tracks the direction his eyes point-

And Reyes laughs wholehearted, “I’m guessin’ yeah. Yeah?”

Kendall says nothing. But he doesn’t turn away.

As if he could.

It must make him look some sort of way, though: the picture. Little details like how James apparently hasn’t gotten around to finding a shave, has a decent layer of darker scruff. A gash above his eyebrow, the missing pauldron of that leather armor.

There’s no mistaking him for anyone else.

“…Alright. He really that bad?”

Gee. If that was it. Well.

“No-…no,” amends, “He’s…James is-”

“ _James_?”

“Yeah. Like you said. He’s done a lot.” Because he has. Technically. Theoretically. _Literally_ -speaking. Kendall, _especially_ , shouldn’t bad-mouth him. Yet.

Reyes returns to the sight of James striking up a conversation with Corporal Betsy. Raises his eyebrows. “Stand-up guy or no,” wagers, “Think we’re about to see his balls handed to him?”

Kendall squints, “What, assuming he hits on her?” stares between the two, “…Close call.”

“Oh you’re kiddin’. Betsy’s _First Recon_ , bud. Courier’s kapoot.”

“Reyes, he’s three feet from her; sniping skills irrelevant. First Recon’s hand-to-hand is average at best.”

“But she’s a good shot.”

“And from what you’ve heard, he’s not?”

His comrade there scratches at his chin, ridiculous-like. Bites at his cheek thoughtful. “Okay. Okay but- alright, consider. Even if his draw is quicker, 10 of Spades would take him out _right quick_. Blink of an eye.”

Kendall winces; 10 of Spades’ hypothetical interference is enough of a reminder they shouldn’t be arguing something so… _implied_. Too connected with what happened to them.

Brushes off the topic, even if Reyes point is, _again_ , irrelevant to the irrelevant debate, “Whatever, man.” Checks his recruits to find Murphey peeking towards their conversation. He jerks his chin towards the range. She listens quick.

He definitely likes her better than-

Kendall sighs, “Grady. Straighten up your-”

“Uh…Knight?”

Reyes sounds thoroughly fazed. But Reyes isn’t looking at him.

James _is_ , though.

Stares - unblinking - their way across a stretch of broken pavement and dead grass, and he figures Reyes is probably wondering the _why_ of that, too.

Kendall only knows half the answer. A half that feels deafening to him. Transparent. Like his eyes meeting James’ is a confession for all of McCarran, a declaration he’s had that hint of a smile on the backs of his thighs.

But James breaks it, first, focuses back on the Corporal with a response while Reyes stays oblivious. To the part that matters.

Is more concerned with offering to kick James’ ass for him, “Hold up - let me clarify. No guarantee on the ass-kicking, but the attempt would be in your honor.”

It’s how Kendall can tell his game-face isn’t doing so hot today.

Most of what comes out of Reyes’ mouth is usually badinage. Raillery was something of a personality trait for him; but that didn’t mean Kendall couldn’t decode which lines were meant to distract. Cover-up, lighten the mood.

Plus Reyes is more than aware Kendall is too proud to let anyone else fight his battles.

But that’s the thing. Reyes is aware of a lot about him. Aware that, based on experience, whatever shows on his face equals bad shit.

And it’s not, really, that he has a problem with seeing people who’ve touched his dick before. Again. It’s not. Special circumstances aside. He _does_ , however, have a problem with seeing James. Who just so happens to have touched his dick before.

Has a problem with seeing him _here_.

Here, he can’t be… _that_. What he said. What James _knows_ is, god. More than Reyes. Reyes, who has _not_ touched his dick before, thanks, but _has_ stuck by him through a lot of the shit that made sleep so fucking miserable, most nights.

Except, he uses “more” lightly, because, Reyes is _familiar_.

 _Reyes_ has a memory of Kendall slicked-red up to his elbows and frantic. Shares 36 hours stranded in Fiend territory under the rusted-through metal skeleton of a cab-over, the squelched rip of flesh and limbs, the snap of bones and screams- _those fucking screams_ \- echoed constant _relentless_ incessant, the unmoving heap of a warrant officer bleeding out beside them.

 _Reyes_ is the one who has Katie’s favorite color mixed-in somewhere with stories whispered in absolute-black; how Kendall’s mom used to hum the Nuka-Cola jingle gathering up maize and xander root; the first time he caught a glimpse of a deathclaw.

So it’s almost ridiculous. That he should _care_ , then, if Reyes does or doesn’t know about one or two _solitary_ things out of a hundred that matter more to him.

It’s none of Reyes _business_ how he deals with what the Wastes do to you, or how terrifyingly close he’s come to suffocating on it all; Reyes has his own demons to deal with. But for words he’s never _ever_ had any intention of uttering, for words that are so buried deep under an agonizing panic in his chest? They feel a whole fucking lot like they’re on the tip of his tongue at times.

It’s misplaced guilt in the back of his throat when he clears it, watches James take off towards the gated exit with a grim intent. Because, Reyes has concern and suspicion drawn in the angles of his face along with a scenario in his head that probably makes him think James is a threat.

Which is not…totally uncalled for. But still.

He couldn’t blame the tension in his shoulders completely on him.

“Forget it,” he says.

“…Positive?”

Never.

“Yeah,” hears the gate bang shut in time with the firing of Murphey’s rifle, “What time are we guarding the Southern later?”

* * *

 

The south wall was lined with a broad area of cratered concrete, fringed by the remains of a chain-link. Transmission towers that whine with fallen cords.

It had views of the rear of an abandoned warehouse, the Allied Tech Offices that mark undisputed territory. The shell of a wooden farmhouse peeking between them from a ways back.

Combat came West from Fiends, wandering in to kill, or just wandering in, too cracked-out to realize, Jet or Buffout goading them on from their veins. Maybe a few stray fire ants on a uneventful shift. There had to be a mound nearby.

The south wall, also, had some new decor since the last time he was out here, apparently. Large white letters of _FUCK THE NCR_. Repetitive and paired with similar gists.

The graffiti was only new to that particular spot. Grew more frequent adjacently.

“I love what you guys’ve done with the place by the way,” Kendall comments, veering the subject as far as possible from the rash Reyes is claiming to have in a fair amount of detail, eyes shifting from the dripping curves of a _DIE NCR_ to flit around a hollow vehicle, hidden partial by the warehouse. Clicks the magazine of his 9 mil in place.

Reyes barks a laugh, “Impressive, isn’t it? For them, anyway.”

“Humble words for someone who has trouble writing up his weekly reports.”

Miraculously, the guy flounders. Turns to spit before checking down his sights, grumbling something about his Mama and priorities.

Touchy.

“What- nothing?” Kendall smirks, “You know I’m only with you for the witty repartee, right? If you stop putting out I’m packing my bags.”

“Don’t you have recruits to train, _honey_?”

Ouch. Too far, “Don’t remind me.”

That one earns a glare from Grady.

But Reyes is right.

“When you’re aiming, aligning your iron sights? Both eyes open. See what Reyes is doing right now? Don’t fucking do that-”

“Oh get _fucked_ , Knight.”

“Lieutenants shouldn’t _squint_ at their pistols.”

“Well shit, I can’t aim, I can’t read; why don’t they just go ahead and discharge me?”

“Come on. You’re being ridiculous, they’d probably just send you to Camp Golf with Grady.” Feigns encouragement. A pat on the back. Kendall doesn’t know much of anyone who wouldn’t choose discharge over banishment to their foul-up base.

The recruits must’ve already been filled-in on that, or figured it out: Murphey actually laughs, a _giggle_ behind her palm and- that’s pretty cute. He hasn’t seen something like it in awhile.

Bad news is, Grady must think that’s pretty cute, too. Must think _she’s_ pretty cute with her cropped hair the color of cornsilk, her cheeks rosy from the heat.

Gets way too flustered that giggle is at his expense. More stormy than put-out.

It’s moments like these he feels insanely sympathetic for anyone who happens to have breasts in their ranks.

It’s also a moment he feels kinda bad, though. For Grady. Not for Reyes. (Fuck Reyes.)

Kendall gives in.

“Hey, listen-” Grady doesn’t. Continues to flop around with the service rifle in his hands, a messy clicking of its pieces, clenched jaw. Kendall sighs, grabs it, points the barrel down, “ _Hey_. All of us- every single one of these assholes here started out green, alright? You don’t join up a Colonel. Work for it,” releases the firearm, “And trust me, it feels pretty great proving people wrong.”

He doesn’t wait for the kid to respond, doesn’t tack on the _get used to it_ part of his speech that’s there in the back of his mind, written bold. It’s what he should say, instead, of all of that. What the rest of them’ve been fed. Forceful.

_Wasteland’s a dick, son. Roll over and take it._

Kendall bites his tongue.

They need to focus.

“Eyes up, both of you. Stick with watching the warehouse. And _hold_ your fire.” Kendall can’t stress that part enough. He refuses to breed anymore trigger-happy nosebleeds into the mix.

That leaves the rest to him and Reyes.

Kendall is looking out towards the Basincreek building, skirting its edges. Birds of prey circling overhead.

“Pep-talks are nice and all,” Reyes mutters, voices what Kendall’d been thinking, “In the moment. But-”

“I know.” He cuts in, under his breath. Glued to boarded-up windows.

“You shouldn’t-”

“I said _I know_ , Reyes. I’m not their drill instructor.”

“Kendall, man,” and he starts at the use of his first name, “I’m not saying to be harsh on ‘em. Just make sure they don’t expect someone to hold their hand every time-”

“Yeah.”

“-you _saw_ the kid. His hands start shakin’ at a joke just imagine some fucker like Cook-Cook comin’ at him.”

Kendall snaps. “I wish you wouldn’t say shit like that.”

“Like what? The truth?”

And Kendall exhales. Stares hard at some giant rat in the distance sniffing at, god, who knows. He’s just trying to erase the imagery Cook-Cook brings. “…Yes?”

Reyes snorts, soft.

Kendall does not pout. “Stop acting older than me.”

“I _am_ older than you.”

“Make it pretty easy to forget.” But that’s a lie. And Kendall hates it; Reyes talked him through almost everything when they used to patrol together.

No, what he hates is feeling his age when he was suppose to be in control. In charge of directing camps when he didn’t even know what to do with himself.

Maybe that was the point. Telling everyone else what they should do was easier. Telling yourself?

Kendall hasn’t nailed that one down yet. Katie’d always made sure to remind him of it.

Reyes says, “You know you’re my boy, right?”

And Kendall huffs. “Shut up.” Glances at his recruits. Their shiny brown and blue irises darting over the horizon, eager.

His retort is taken as another _yes_ , with, “Good. Then what’s been eatin’ you?”

Kendall shakes his head.

Gets a shrug. “Okay. Meant what I said about you lookin’ better, though. You do. Since the last time I saw you. But you’re also lookin’ just as conflicted as you did during Op 2-10.”

“I’m not.”

“Better? Or conflicted?”

“Neither- no. I’m not-” start over. Squares, “I’m good.”

A breathed laugh, “Buddy.”

Kendall nudges a chunk of busted cement at his feet, spots a fire ant, on the smaller side, behind the East-most Allied Technologies structure. He raises his voice towards the other two, decides on, “Murphey,” tells her to aim for its, “Torso.”

And she breathes in, out, preparing like she’s never had to load lead into some Wastes abomination before. But he knows she’ll get it.

It’s too far away to hear its raspy squeak, the scuttle of its legs, but close enough to tell it’s been hit when she fires. A hit. A miss. A hit. Frenzied movements and the collapsing of its abdomen.

He’s fixed to it. Admits, low, back to Reyes, “…Think I’m just doing one of those things where you start questioning shit.”

What he doesn’t expect is his answer, of, “Well there’s your mistake.”

Kendall faces him, more than a little sunken at his core if he wants to acknowledge it. He doesn’t, though. Want to acknowledge it. That would be realizing that some piece of him thought otherwise.

Reyes doesn’t seem as somber, lips turned up small. Affixes, “You’re only just now questioning shit.”

Kendall’s lips part.

Doesn’t know how he would’ve responded to that.

Before Murphey calls his name.

Twice. With “Grady is-!”

But he already knows what Grady _is_ by the time he turns towards her:

Taking off across the tarmac, a beeline for the area between the warehouse and the offices.

There’s a curse, spit from behind him, muted by Kendall’s yell and the distance he’s already gained.

 _Idiot idiot_ **_idiot_ ** **-** “Grady!”

Kid’s steps don’t even falter. And Kendall finds out what he’s after, fast, through the sound of an electric buzz, wisped past his ear.

He barely has time to pull him behind Allied. Their bodies crashing against its walls once he catches up, a harsh laugh cutting off, wet, from around the corner. Lets him know Reyes is already covering. Maybe Murphey.

Grady squirms underneath him, protests Kendall is tempted to choke silent.

Pants, “You’re going back to Murphey-”

“I’m staying!”

“-and you’re not going to _move_ until you’re damn sure I want you to.”

Tries to listen for footsteps. Movement. A crunch in the gravel. Voices. Over the drums in his pulse. The _I can help_ ’s from the kid.

God. One- three. Four.

At least four more.

Reyes is squeezing off bullets, getting closer.

He has to let go of the kid. He has to- can only hope he doesn’t follow when he bends to check around that corner.

Spies one down. One breathing too shallow to matter, garbled. He kicks an RCW out of reach when he passes. Backs flat against the building.

Grady must still be behind him; Reyes slides up in a crouch, hissing. “Out of all the _fucking-_ ”

“Hush,” Kendall bites out, “There’s four.”

And he swallows, chest surging under his breastplate. Can feel sand in his teeth when he grinds them.

There’s no cover here. They’re too close- they’re too fucking _close_.

And “…Make that six, Captain,” Reyes breathes from beside him.

They come into sight. Opposite side. Shoving at each other with Baseball bats, knocking around the skull of a brahmin. Haven’t been alerted by the others yet.

The others, who are still screeching, baiting. Know they’re there.

“ _I’m gonna mount you on my fucking wall!_ ”

Reyes makes a noise, “Ain’t a lot I hate more than Fiends.”

Kendall wipes a hand across his face. “How many stimpaks do you have on you?”

“…Would you be the first to take me out if I said _uno_?”

He digs into the pocket of his uniform, shoves an extra two into Reyes’ hands, wordless.

“Tell me you have at least three more in there for yourself."

“Hand one to the kid.”

“ _Christ-_ Knight. I hate to break it to ya. But I’d first bump uglies with a goddamn deathclaw than hand this cock-holster a stim’ right now-”

“ _Please_ ,” stoops down further, “You’re gonna have to take him around with you to the other side if he won’t pull back- we don’t have time to deal with it. Just make sure he stays behind you.”

“You’ll be-” Reyes lets the words die quick on his tongue. Breathes out, a grumble through his teeth, “Better to, you son of a bitch.” Grips Kendall’s arm, and Kendall meets his eyes. Nods.

“Quell The Storm,” he tacks on, a halfhearted grunt. And he’s rounding back the other way. Shoving Grady.

Kendall returns the unheard sarcastic sigh of “Ride The Thunder.”

A saying. A time they came across the motto in some book. Used it to make fun of NCR’s tackier propa-posters.

Kendall cocks the metal in his hands, warm under his touch. Slick. Raises it.

Knows this shot’ll be the impedus to the feeding frenzy.

And its bullet will leave behind a casing, a ring of finality. Meet the leg of a Fiend, be the cause of a shriek and that millisecond of lag.

Before a symphony of shouting, dances of ammo.

Someone takes out Fiend two of group two. Catches him in the shoulder while his companion falls to ground. Frees Kendall to pivot the corner of Allied and take aim at the first junkie he sees.

Its purple hair and yellowed skin, laughing - they always _laugh_ \- a maniacal grating in his ears. He stops the trajectory of their arm, readying to lob a frag. Yellow skin painting red. Has Reyes in the corner of his eye ‘til he ducks himself back around the wall, avoids the stinging impact of rapid laser fire.

Surrounded by hysterical jeers.

Viciously snapped taunts.

“ _Beg! BEG!_ ” “ _You wanna get close, huh!?_ ” “ _Got us a feisty one_ -”

Missed shots shattering debris into the air.

It doesn’t take long for one to charge, stumbling over loose bits of architecture- charcoal eyes so gone. Like they don’t even feel lead lodging hot through their ribcage when Kendall fires into ‘em. And it’s the blur of a tackle and resorting to a knife- having to feel the slash under the palm curled around its handle, the thumb he has pressed to its spine.

And its having to push back up to find Reyes out in the clearing, bringing down some snarling excuse for a human-being. Having to watch a grenade fall. In the span between them. Being ready to call out, a warning in your throat. Only to be upstaged by a detonation.

It’s the blast knocking him prone. Taking everything from his lungs, jilting his head hollow. A chiming peal that reverberates angry.

The Mojave rotates.

_Reyes-_

Heartbeat louder than his thoughts.

Reyes is far. Red. He has to get to him. _So fucking red_ -

“-ould’ve stayed in bed today, Hero.”

Green. The man’s teeth are green. Speckled blood.

It is all Kendall sees.

A Baseball bat. Already decorated with someone else’s head. Those vultures looming.

A short-lived realization.

Until all of it is gone. Replaced with a bang.

Replaced with someone else's face. Less green. More pink. More alive.

And Kendall blinks.

Feels like maybe he should care _how_ the _hell_ , or-

Why the burlap sack James is carrying is bleeding.

But Reyes is- “Reyes,” he manages to croak out- thinks he manages. Like that’d mean anything to a guy who just manifested himself out of nowhere. Says it again, more than a couple letters stuck in his throat.

Most of his body disagrees, objects when he entertains the idea that he can actually stand, walk easy- fuck if he doesn’t do it. Stagger over the ground that can’t seem to stay still. His brain like liquid. Two fingers to the side of Reyes’ neck.

Swallow down the hope- acceptance first. Accept it first.

But _shit_ he can’t tell- he can’t fucking tell. Hands shaking too bad-

They’re knocked away. “Back up.”

And Kendall watches James take his place, leaning over Reyes, place an ear next to his lips.

Kendall stops breathing. Knuckles white.

He’ll have to rip the dog tags from Reyes throat, bring them back to the camp, if- _god-- if-_

But James nods.

A sign that releases him from whatever kept him upwards.

He closes his eyes, head falling to his knees, folding in like a puppet without strings there in the dirt.

All of him _hurts_.

“Is his leg…?”

The sound of fabric, “I don’t know.”

Kendall winces, one more breath, “And the kid?”

“…Blondie? The one that bolted?”

Figures. “Y-yeah.”

More rustling, “Saw him with a girl.”

He lifts up- attempts to, “We- I need to get him to Dr. Kemp. Reyes-”

James stares, eyes catching his struggle, “Kendall,” tone pronounced, explains, “You’re hurt.”

“I’m-” Yeah, well no shit he was hurt, but-

He didn’t notice the searing in his side came from a nasty thermal hit, his armor soaking bright. The shrapnel that must’ve torn across his cheekbone.

“I’ll get him. You,” tosses a stimpak that lands on Kendall’s lap, “use that.”

Kendall doesn’t have it in him to argue. Carefully pries up his jacket, the material sticking painful, punches the needle of the thing into the flash of ruby skin at his torso - bottom lip between his teeth as James stabs another into one of Reyes’ veins, begins wrapping him into a lift, up onto his shoulders.

“Grab that for me,” he says, voice tight under the weight.

And Kendall searches the asphalt, that crimsoned bag the only thing left. He regards its clumsily-rounded shape, wary. Curious enough to raise, “What the fuck is it?”

“A job.”

“What?”

Clarifies vague, “Driver Nephi.”

Kendall pauses.

… _Bull_. _Shit._

He’d question it eventually. For now he had to focus on motor skills; one foot in front of the other. The world still unsteady on its axis.

Murphey has a fist clenched over her chest, wide-eyed, when they pass, stance shielded in front of Grady. Asks careful, hitched, “Knight…?” Gaze on Reyes’ body, draped slack.

“He’s-” Kendall grimaces, hand pressed to the flaring at his side, “He’s breathing.”

Breathing. That was all he had to reassure with. But it wasn’t. Reassuring or comforting or a pass to think he’ll be okay. Breathing only meant any pulmonary damage the blast caused wasn’t showing itself yet; there was fuck-ton of other shit that could be wrong or-

“He’s breathing.” He repeats. Doesn’t mean to. Like waving a large red flag that lets everyone and himself know just what kind of state he’s in.

Of course, that doesn’t even factor in physically. Which the Doc is intent on finding out once they get there: “In the Concourse. Straight back from the entrance,” he’d directed James.

And Kendall thinks it’s fucked up, that he’s being checked out first on a basis of “Absence of external injuries characterizes primary blast injuries.” Reyes is fucking _unconscious_. That part seemed pretty damn internal to him.

There’s that inkling in his mind, too, all those medical terms just add up to mean Kemp is going to prioritize who he thinks _can_ be saved, before-

Kendall breathes steady through his nose, eyelids hiding the Doc’s apathy. Doesn’t bother keeping the agitation from his voice, perched up on the edge of a metal gurney.

That’s what’s going on when James comes back, sans that creepy bag - which he’s definitely addressing, after somebody gets out of his face with a clipboard and a statement about heart rate. A rusty stethoscope pressed cold to the left of his sternum.

“Any abnormal tinnitus?”

“Sorry?”

“Your ears. Are they still ringing.”

“…No.”

“Dizziness?”

“No.”

Then it’s a light shining in his left eye, right eye. Asking about chest pain. Inspecting the color of his fingertips.

Jabbing him in the arm with a dose of Med-X, the only thing he’s actually appreciative of.

James’ eyes follow that clipboard in Kemp’s hands when the guy, finally, starts his way over to Reyes, before they’re back to Kendall.

And Kendall really wants his shirt back on. Grabs for it as he voices, “D’you really bag one of Major Dhatri’s bounties?”

James taps a satchel hooked to his hip that rattles, casual. Bottlecaps. “I don’t normally tote around heads for kicks.”

Kendall looks him over, stained shirt pulled down over his gauze-patched stomach. “First Recon’s been gunning after Nephi for weeks.” It comes out more incriminating than he intends.

“They mentioned.”

He presses his lips together, lands on the outline of Kemp working over Reyes behind the divider.

Says, “He thought she was gonna hand it to you, yah know. Corporal Betsy.”

James seems like he knows exactly what Kendall’s implying, parries, “Did _you_?”

Kendall opts, “…You’re an idiot, but you’re not _that_ much of an idiot.”

“Easy with the compliments.”

“…She tell you?” He guesses.

But James corrects, dismissive, “Gorobets.” Then, “Oh- I got you something.” And that something falls into Kendall’s lap.

He looks down, James warranting, “You didn’t look dorky enough without your beret. And that pistol’ll probably come in handy again. Might wanna keep it around a little longer.”

And he picks the 9mm up from where it’s balancing against his right thigh, checks the chamber for dust. He hadn’t even noticed he’d left these out there.

He could do without the beret. But.

“Thanks.” Means for both. These and- what happened out there. Hooks the sidearm onto his belt before hopping down from the examination table.

And stumbling.

James’ hand is pressed to his chest, “Thought you said you weren’t dizzy anymore.”

Kendall ducks away. Brushes him off, more than a little affronted, “I lost my balance,” and, “Aren’t you suppose to be out saving babies from trees or whatever?”

“I’m working up to it.”

He checks back at him, “…Where you headed anyway?”

James shrugs, “East.”

“ _East_?”

“East.”

“Specific.” He deadpans.

And James sweeps past him, plops down into one of the chairs Kendall was aiming for. These modular seats that coop up in an eight-count row. Like airports’d needed to cram as many places to sit as possible in one area.

“Why? Is there a reason I need to be specific?” smirks a pretty challenge, ”You gonna follow me?”

Kendall doesn’t know how to respond to it. James continues.

“Didn’t think so,” stretches himself out, arm draped over the back of the first open chair. Kendall stares at it, decides to skip it in favor of the seat opposite-side him. Settles into it with an exhale. “I didn’t expect to see you here, by the way.” Kendall could say the same. “Guess your job as a babysitter is still going strong though.”

He holds up two fingers at that, wiggles them like they represent Murphey and Grady.

Kendall doesn’t want to think about Grady right now. Drones, “Must be my paternal charm.”

James hums, an absentminded acknowledgement. Mirrors Kendall’s eyes, set on that shadowed divider.

“What’s his name again?” In a not _-totally_ indelicate way.

“Reyes.”

“Yeah, some of us call people by their first names?”

Classic. Coming from _Courier Six_. Who’s only called Kendall _Kendall_ a total of 3 out of the 20 times he’s addressed him, ever.

 _Lieutenant_ _Cowboy_ had to be a personal favorite.

But Kendall hesitates. His answer softer. “Dustin. His name is Dustin.”

James sighs, then, drums his fingers against the grimed-plastic of the chairs. Raises up from it to face Kendall, leaning down close, arms against the back of his seat, either side of his head.

“He’ll live.” he says. So sure, and-

“Don’t say that,” he half demands, half pleads, “Don’t say it when you don’t _know_.” Beret crushed in his fist.

James searches his face. A distance Kendall can see every color in the hazel between his eyelashes. Greens and golds and a starburst of red. Rove over and inside of him under too-white lights.

There’s a nod, subtle. A restated, “He’ll live.”

And he wants to glare. Disapproving. He does, just.

James looks too genuine.

It makes it worse.

Kendall turns away, as much as he can.

Lips are at his ear. “I’ll catch you later, Major.” Lips that trail away, skim brief across his temple as they go.

And then James goes.

It’s when Reyes starts screaming Kendall kinda wishes he hadn’t. Thinking how he hopes it’s not the last thing he hears coming from his comrade’s mouth.

The screeching of the monorail, the hum of machinery. The echoes of metallic clangs. It doesn’t drown it out.

But it’s the chrome of it all. The stark colorlessness of the concourse and the shine of the medical cots. The emptiness of the section.

_He doesn’t want to be alone._


	5. SNID:13225625

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The side of the tweezers end up puncturing the pad of his thumb. A snag in its metal busting the skin where he grips too tight, dripping red down onto the paper below it. A drop that sinks into the inky “a” of his name. Blooms alive into an “l.”

_“My hearing has gone to_ shit _. Swear this right one’s goner than Kay Kyser on his wedding day.”_

_“But you’re fucking alive.”_

_“Yeah... Just my luck, huh?”_

_“…Luck won’t always be on your arm, dude. Look after yourself, okay?”_

_“What, leavin’ me already? ‘Sure know how to make a girl feel wanted.”_

_“I’ll write you everyday.”_

_“Sh- no you won’t… Just, uh, head up, yah know?”_

_“Always is.”_

_“Uh-huh.”_

_“What?”_

_“Nothin’. You go on, back to the ol’ brahmin pen. Oh and, hey, you see that courier before me, pass along my thanks for the assist.”_

_“Yeah. Yeah, if I see him.”_

_“Hard to hate someone that kept that head of yours from being bashed in?”_

_“More someone that dragged that ass of yours back up here, maybe-”_

_“Awh come on, Knight. Your fleshy bits are a lot more important than mine are and- lemme finish. Boys like me, out on the field? Drop and replace like parts in a generator, man. NCR needs you. Shit as that work is. You help all this foofaraw n’ hullabaloo run smooth. Otherwise we’re just headless geckos runnin’ around.”_

_“Right. I’m sure the Mojave’s falling apart without me there- why do you sound like General Oliver all of the sudden?”_

_“That wasn’t a_ morale _speech, dingus. It was a hint. Pull yourself together and figure it out.”_

 _“Reyes, you can’t- you can’t just expect me to be happy all the time- or ever. That’s not how any of this_ works- _”_

_“Kendall. Man, it’s not that you look miserable. I’m sayin’. Just- like you finally give a shit that you might be.”_

* * *

It’s not actually surprising.

Maybe even expected. Definitely not in the hopeful way, though. More dreading, or, at most, begrudging tolerance.

Kendall’s question sounds that way. “What are you doing here?”

“Can’t a guy visit?”

He glances up from the numbers etching out beneath the pencil in his hand, cutting. James has an eyebrow raised. “He can. Doesn’t mean he should.”

“I’m hurt,” he says, not sounding all that hurt, snatches up the paper Kendall’s working on from the counter, studies it uninterested, “That the thanks I get for saving your third-class hide?”

“Yeah- speaking of thanks,” plucks the sheet back, mutters reluctant, “Reyes sends his.”

“Who?” Starts shuffling through the rest of the shit Kendall has piled up to the side. Kendall slaps a hand down on top of it, irked. Stares pointed until James lifts his in surrender, theatric: as if wanting him to stop fucking with his stuff is somewhere along the border of unreasonable.

“Reye- I mean Dustin,” he explains once James settles on leaning himself against the desk, is paying attention, “He wanted me to pass along a thank you.”

“He wasn’t _that_ heavy.”

Kendall meets his eyes, “I’m serious.”

“Wow, are you? How rare. Maybe you should write that down in your log thingy.”

“You honestly think that’s gonna keep working on me?”

The deflecting thing. The lowkey _defensive_ thing. The I’m-going-to-get-mouthy-so-we-don’t-have-to-have-to-have-this-conversation… thing.

James’ answer is the pinch of a forefinger and a thumb, millimeters apart. A simper behind the gesture of “ _a little bit._ ”

And, truth is, Kendall doesn’t disagree. He’s all for pushing boundaries when it was necessary but. Right now, _pushing_ would be tactless.

James was steel, the shiny surface of Brotherhood armor. You had to find the chink in it, when you shot. The weak spots. Get through to where you wanted.

That’s his excuse.

One easier to swallow than the reality, of how he almost forgets what James is trying to distract him from, anyway.

So he doesn’t. Instead he presses his lips together, taps that pencil against linoleum. James regards a trooper dart past and out of the Headquarters.

Dust sticks close to his hairline, smudges dark along the cut of a cheekbone. Is carried by a drop of sweat down the side of his neck.

That gash on his forehead is almost healed. But Kendall knows it’ll add to James’ collection of marks that discolor the gold of his skin.

“Why are you really here, James?”

He looks back to him, corner of his eye, “Your Tech Sergeant in Forlorn Hope. She has me running around updating radio security codes at all the Ranger stations. Says they’ve been _compromised_.”

“Compromised?”

“As in Legion might be eavesdropping on the Rangers’ circle-jerks. Also something about inconsistencies and numbers.” James shrugs, translates, “Guess you guys have been getting a lot of wacko reports from them.”

Kendall’s brow furrows, “Like what?”

“Some of it’s just boring shit - supply surplus, heavy casualties. But,” a laugh, “ _Super Mutant Legionaries_ at Delta, trained deathclaws at Foxtrot- which, I’m actually kind of hoping to see ‘cause that’d be _fantastic_ -”

Kendall huffs disbelief. Dissents, “There’s no way those are right.”

“Yeah, well, so far: they’re not. That’s the point.”

“But that doesn’t make any sense. It’s one thing for intel to be intercepted, but reports from the Rangers have to be signed off by Hanlon before they’re even _sent_ to Forlorn.”

A blink, “Hanlon?”

“The Chief,” clarifies, “He’s head of the Rangers, stationed up in that old resort at Camp Golf.”

“Camp Golf. Of course.” James pushes up, stretches an arm, bent behind his head. Kendall flickers to the strain in it.

Asks, incredulous, “Is anyone else on this?”

Kendall doesn’t need the verification that comes after.

Fuck the desk jockeys, right? Guess half of their force couldn’t grasp that patrol routes were useless when you announced them to the whole of the fucking Mojave.

“Just me.” James smiles sarcastic.

“Just you.” Kendall echoes. Seemed to be the case a lot anymore. “And you’re, what, heading to Foxtrot now?”

“That’s the plan. Minus the ‘now’ part. Think I’ll take advantage of the five-star accommodations here first.” And it looks like he needs it. The pit-stop before he started north. Way fucking north. Exhaustion rings around his eyes.

Maybe Kendall’d feel bad for him having to settle for the what the Outpost’s barracks had to offer, if he wasn’t aware James could afford to have an Ultra-Luxe suite waiting for him back on the Strip.

“Does this plan also happen to include you single-handedly taking on a small army of trained deathclaws?” he drolls.

“More attempting to nab one as my evil steed.” He mimicks the horns on one of those things with his fingers.

And wouldn’t that be a sight.

Kendall sizes him up, “You really do all this shit for the NCR by yourself?” quirks an eyebrow, “No lackeys that kiss your heels? Footmen at your beck-and-call?”

James narrows at him, looks like he has something to say other than what ends up coming out of his mouth, “Sometimes. I have people who help me out, yeah.” But Kendall perks at that, files it for later while James prods, “Looking to be one of them?”

He doesn’t even want to _consider_ what that would spiral into, “I can’t just keep leaving my post, James.” He objects, and resists a wince. Because, it’s dangerously close to broaching the subject of the _last time_ James dragged him from the Outpost. Or, lured. Whatever. The point was he couldn’t keep wandering off, especially not for a beguiling smirk.

“Can’t or won’t?”

“ _Both._ ” Affirms, “I have a job I’m supposed to be doing.”

“And tell me what that job _is_ , exactly.” A wry curiosity on his face, hands folded ironic atop the desk.

Kendall bites his cheek, regards that smirk. Dubious, “Here I handle most of the paperwork for-”

James stops him, “No, not that. Your _objective_.” Gestures, “How- does this- help the NCR in the overall _scheme_ of things; come at me with the most official, _bullshit_ answer you’ve got.”

Kendall glowers, reproach, and James laughs, “This time _I’m_ serious.”

Clearly.

“Swear. Just tell me.”

“…Considering the situation,” Kendall tries, slow. James nods a continue, “The Outpost is a _crucial tactical position_ if the enemy attempts to breach NCR territory through the west, so a standing force ensures preparedness on the frontline. This Headquarters is the base of administration for the surrounding area, manages comm to and from the Republic, and- _normally,_ clearing caravans to pass through here allows for trade and distribution of supplies to troops.”

James composes, “Alright,” smug undertones, “So with NCR’s _leading_ campaign to ultimately _annex_ the Mojave for its economically and militaristically _valuable_ locations: would you say your job here _most_ contributes by dealing with secondary obstacles to that goal?”

Kendall stares. And stares- and. Baffled, “ _What-_ ”

James hand-motions for him to hurry up, and. It’s not that the _question_ confuses him silent. It’s the fact that it’s _James_ who questions it. But he plays along. Thinks, okay. Thinks, technically, he wouldn’t be trapped here - none of them would - if Legion weren’t a threat. Legion: an obstacle to Hoover Dam and New Vegas. _Technically_ , all of these complications wouldn’t be piling up if Mr. House hadn’t halted NCR progress with the New Vegas Treaty. New Vegas Treaty: an obstacle. If they had more bodies to clear the roads, caravans could pass through the Outpost easier. If the roads were clear and caravans could pass- if, if. Emphasis on the _if_. These are all _technicalities_ , so, “Technically no, then. I’d still be-”

“But _technically_ yes,” James rebuffs, curves dismissive to, “ _Now_ , tell me what _my_ objective is.”

Kendall shoots back, blistering, “ _Technically_ , I _don’t know_ you haven’t quite _told_ me that part yet-”

Undeterred, “Tell me” he starts, leaning further in, rephrases pronounced, “how my help gets NCR closer to kicking Legion’s ass and claiming Vegas and the Dam.” Promises, “Last one.”

A sigh, “The Ambassador has you reaching for diplomatic connections to aid in the upcoming battle for Hoover Dam I’m guessing, but if you mean all of your Messiah of the Mojave shit? Then I’d say your support has taken care of a lot the problems that have slowed-” oh. Fuck no, “…us down.” Kendall finishes dull.

And he drops his pencil, crosses his arms, piqued in the not-good way. The proud curve of James’ lips does it. “No.”

James feigns innocent, “No what?”

“You’re trying to _logic_ me with unsound logic into accompanying you on your suicide missions? Really?” Kendall accuses.

“Well, I mean, if we’re back to using the word ‘technically’ than all I did was ask some questions; the logic was all you, Major.”

“James-” he grumbles, removes his beret to run a hand through his hair, “Even if any of that was true- or _mattered_ ,” quick checks around the HQ, “I’m not leaving.”

James makes a sound of protest, “Wastelands were _meant_ to be wandered, Kendall.”

That… “Sounds lonely.” The thought conjuring a grimace. It was isolating enough out here surrounded by people, enough without…purposely isolating yourself. And for what? Blight of the Old World?

Kendall actually catches James falter, borderline undetectable. He’s already pressing on, skeezing, “I wouldn’t be lonely if you came with me.”

And Kendall lowers his voice, a splinter in his abdomen, “First of all? Stop that. Second…” he drums his fingers on the desk, frustrated, a blunt tune that clashes with _Stars of the Midnight Range_ hissing out from the radio behind him - “where would we even be talking?”

Gets back instant, “Vault 3.”

“Vault-…the _Fiend_ Vault?” Yeah. He was right. Suicide mission.

“NCR-friendly enough for you?”

A little _too_ NCR-friendly. James picks up, briefs, “One of your Ranger buddies- Something Anders? He went after that leader of theirs-”

“Motor-Runner…”

“Yeah. He hasn’t gotten around to making the return trip.”

Anders. Bryce, maybe. He vaguely recalls the guy being kind of a douchebag. But if he’d managed to take down Motor-Runner, Camp McCarran would be, you know, slightly _less_ of a soup sandwich.

Having Fiends set up as close as they were to main base was hell on their numbers over there, a place they couldn’t afford to lose, and Motor-Runner came off eerily _compos mentis_ for what he was. It’d at least destabilize the mass of them if he was out of the picture.

So. Kendall squints, “Which one are you hunting down: the Ranger or the Fiend?”

James cants his head, fluid, “Whichever’s alive.”

And Kendall shakes his. “You’re insane.”

“I prefer adventurous and spunky,” his eyes wander, languid, “That a yes?”

“I prefer you think with your head for once.” Kendall swallows. “I told you I’m not-”

“What if I got you the okay?”

“What? No.”

“Who would I talk to for that?”

“ _No._ ”

“Hypothetically-speaking, then.” James tweaks. Adds on as a compensation, “I’ll leave.”

Kendall’s jaw clenches. Carves out irresolute, “Camp McCarran handles troop allocation for operations in Nevada.” He grabs for his pencil. “Bye.”

James gusts a laugh, straightens. Departs with, “I’ll get you your permission slip.”

“You do that, asshole,” he grouses, skims a line of the form he left off on.

And it’s a mistake on his part, a stupid one, to have thought James wouldn’t _really_.

Wouldn’t _really_ stop at McCarran on his journey to god-knows-where, wouldn’t craft and charm some convincing, practical anecdote of goodwill and light for Hsu, wouldn’t trek the hike back up the incline of I-15. All to wave a piece of signed paper in Kendall’s face not 5 days later.

And the guts of a HAM Radio festoon between them, a choke coil falling into the midst as Kendall drops it down. Fixes, confounded-slack, to the words floating in front of his eyes.

He pulls the page from James’ hand, flits over: _…your proposal as of January 12, 2282…in light of recent events…granted temporary reassignment of Ranking Major Knight, Kendall D. SNID:13225625…aid in the assistance of…five (5) days unless directed otherwise…authorization of Item 4…proceed to additional locations as may be necessary to accomplish…return to permanent station upon completion of the duties in support…all future mission need recommendations will require additional approval…under C/O Ranger Ethan Jackson…your work in these circumstances._

_James Hsu_

_Colonel, New California Republic Army_

“See?” Kendall hears, “Just the way you guys like it around here: bureaucratic and papery.”

He doesn’t look up. Confronts coiled, “What are you trying to prove with this, James?”

Facile, “That you should come with me.”

“By _forcing_ me.” He enunciates, lowers the letter. What- were they _escorts_ now?

James says “False,” unconcerned-like, but not enough to cover up the sudden tension around his mouth before he’s planting a palm on the surface of Kendall’s desk, narrowly misses knocking off a variable capacitor and a couple vacuum tubes when he jumps up to slide over the furniture, stays seated on the edge of it to the right of him. Feet kick where they dangle, old wood thumping hollow as boot-heels bump against it. “I mentioned you could decline.”

The statement sounds as if it should have “but you won’t” tacked on to the end of it.

Makes him grind out, “Good,” pinning the paper to James’ chest. It crinkles against leather. “Because I do.”

He switches focus back to the radio, locates tweezers underneath wires. James sighs melodramatic.

“You really don’t want to leave this place?” Comes from above him.

“I don’t want to leave with _you_.” He corrects, candid. Glares at a circuit, “Understand _that_. Persistence isn’t charming when you’re annoying about it.”

James drops down to the floor, “And you’d rather…fix radios?”

Kendall’s fingertips cut into the sharp edge of the tweezers, “This _radio_ helps us communicate with the other-” he bites his tongue, “You know what? Forget it.”

He lifts up from where he’s bent over the HAM, finds James hovering too close. “Also? _Back up_.”

James does. Like, a centimeter.

“Fine.” The letter slips across the counter towards him. “I’ll be in the barracks until first light. If you change your mind.”

Kendall doesn’t watch him go. He exhales, leans forward, elbows propping him up above that letter.

He’s thinking of Reyes. And the other day. And- Fiends. The countless times they’ve lost men to the countless times they’ve attacked and the countless things he’s witnessed them do and heard what they’ve done. He’s thinking of Cook-Cook and Corporal Betsy and Ten of Spades’ face when he talks about what happened. He’s thinking, if there’s a chance he can do anything that’d give those gangs of raiders a disadvantage? He should take it.

But he’s also thinking of James. And that night. And _his_ face - god, his stupid fucking face. He’s thinking he still doesn’t trust him, and, even more, he’s thinking he doesn’t trust _himself_. He’s thinking of the idea of having to spend up to five days with the guy, consecutive, which is…terrifying. Because… _because_ -

The side of the tweezers end up puncturing the pad of his thumb. A snag in its metal busting the skin where he grips too tight, dripping red down onto the paper below it. A drop that sinks into the inky “a” of his name. Blooms alive into an “l.”

He shuts his eyes.

And he needs to get out of here.

In the end, he’ll make up some excuse. Again. About the why. The actuality cooking inside him, radiation bubbling silent until it’s too late.

Kendall spits a curse under his breath, once, twice, three times. Maybe four.

“That thing giving you a lot of trouble, son?”

Ranger Jackson’s voice jerks him upright. Has him clear his throat, wipe his thumb on the fabric of his trousers. “No, sir, it’s- uh… it’s probably just a short between the leads. That or I’ll have to try replacing the capacitor. I don’t see any cold solder joints and it’s not an open connection so-”

“Now you’re just talkin’ gibberish to me, Knight. I’ll take your word for it.” Jackson sniffs, adjusts the Ranger hat on his head.

Kendall tugs at the back of his neck, fingers hovering over Hsu’s military order, “Right…”

His commanding officer makes to turn around and- “Actually, sir,” he hastes abrupt, causes shade-shielded eyes back towards him. Passes the order over before he psychs himself out of it. Feels like he’s just relinquished up his dignity.

Jackson handles the paper careful, unlike anything else he touches.

There’s a running joke around the Outpost he gets off to documents. Signed pretty from the brass. Kendall knows the constantly-growing narrative of how his Josie back home is more than likely a user’s manual, is at most an immature outcry of resentment from the slick sleeves itching for action.

Seriously, though. Maybe Kendall doesn’t blame them. Only on the note that sometimes regulation can be blind to context. Sometimes. It’s hard to _not_ think so when you have Ranger Jackson calling the shots, his shades dimming out more than the sun’s rays.

“Well this is…interesting,” he rolls out, naturally sandy in his throat, “That courier’s really taken a liking to you, huh?”

Ice prods in Kendall’s chest, hands curling at the seam of his uniform. His thumb burns, slick.

But he smiles. At least, he hopes it looks like it, “Lucky me. Must be my winning personality.”

“Ha,” Jackson grunts, amused, “You definitely have more than most around here. The bearable kind to boot. And, you know, Knight,” tone growing hard, reproved, “I appreciate you receiving authorization this time around, not just running off like you did. _In fact_ you’re even _luckier_ I didn’t Article 15 you for that little stunt. Don’t think you can afford forfeiture of two-thirds your pay, the way things are right now.”

Kendall schools himself indifferent, tasting acid, “No, sir.”

A scratch at his stubble. A breath pushed from his nose, “Listen, you’re a good kid, great at your job. I‘m glad you and, uh, Courier Six are so concerned to at least get paper to exchange hands. But, Hsu should be well aware he hasn’t the jurisdiction to consent to the nature of this request. Despite his intentions, sending anyone out would be in direct violation of my orders from back West. Orders that happen to be signed and approved all the way up our chain of command.” He holds out the paper for return. “I have no choice but to deny this.”

“With all due respect, sir. General Oliver hasn’t _signed off_ on any offensive maneuvers because of his concern for our positions. Camp McCarran is our main base. If we lose it to _Fiends_ , we might as well be finished here.”

“Now hold on, son, I’m sure McCarran can handle a few Jet-heads. Nothing to risk vulnerability at the NCR perimeter for.”

Kendall shakes his head, “I was there last week, Jackson. They can’t,” relays, “A ranger was sent out to deal with it and he hasn’t reported back. You know the Colonel would’ve never done that if he wasn’t desperate.” Levels at him, “And trust me: I wouldn’t have even considered accepting if I didn’t believe this would spare our asses in the long run.”

Jackson shifts, rumbles a, “Christ.” and, “Right, fine. Five days. _Tops_. Try to make it less. _Much_ less.” And he doesn’t sound happy about it, but, honestly, he didn’t have to be.

Kendall nods, stiff, “Yes, sir.”

Hands on hips, “What time are you expected to head out?”

“Sunrise, sir.”

And his image reflects back at him, trapped tinted inside the frame of sunglasses, as Jackson stares. “That enough time for you to get the HAM back up and runnin’?”

And suddenly leaving is the easiest decision he’s ever made.

* * *

Kendall lied.

Leaving seems easy right up until the 24 seconds it takes him to walk to the barracks, thrust open its doors and into the wall of musky combat gear and liquor that hangs stifling in the air, thick.

Right up until he’s facing James’ back.

He’s sitting at the bar, a chalky thing that rounds its way around shelving that holds shit Kendall has always refused to touch. James holds no such convictions. Has a beer embraced loose in his palm, a finger rubbing at the peel of its Gamma Gulp labeling.

Kendall marches up towards him, anyway, stands tense at the stool next to him. He doesn’t face him. Just sets that fucking paper down on the counter, slides it his way.

And James barely tilts his head to look down at it. But the twitch at the corner of his lips is all the acknowledgment Kendall needs.

“Just promise me-” he inserts, low, stern and obdurate, staying fronted, straight ahead. He eyes Lacey, the closest body to them, who looks habitually pissed, flipping through a brittle issue of _True Police Stories_. Powdered white on her fingers, dark complexion matte from it. “Promise me you won’t push it.”

James has gotten the memo, or he’s just appeasing his appetite for histrionics. Doesn’t look at Kendall when he wheedles, “Push it?” His mouth hovering near the beer’s nozzle.

Kendall eases onto the stool, jaw clenched, chary of the stains that grace the counter, green yellow and red. A crusted chartreuse near his pinky.

James takes a swig in his peripheral. “You know exactly what I’m getting at,” admonition lurking between its spirants.

And James takes to it like he does anything else kindred to authority or order. Turns brazen, disingenuous. The well-kept curve of a machete.

Kendall can see the coyote in his leer. “And if you _ask me_ to push it?”

But it’s the sound of an animal, backed into a corner, when Kendall retorts. Whips his head in James’ direction. “Don’t fuck with me, James.”

Lacey might glance their way, then. If she does, her eyes are faster than his.

And that excuse of a smile only suppresses, doesn’t distinguish. It curtails to a smoldered quirk. An asymmetrical crescent that lines his profile before it’s directed at Kendall head-on.

He sighs, over-the-top with this bogus pity contouring his forehead, says, “Then hop off my dick, Kendall.” Pats Kendall’s cheek, placating. Promising, “See you in eight hours.”

And, how _mad_ would the Mojave be if he _killed their beloved Courier Six right now_?

Kendall is mulling it over, boring into James’ stride towards their bunks in the back. His 9mm is so close, so very close to where his fingers curl, white-knuckled on the bar.

He rubs at his eyes, probably harder than necessary. There’s the thud of an object being set in front of him.

He peeks up, comes face-to-face with the browned glass of another beer, foggy with age.

And Lacey hasn’t seemed to move, but, “Please don’t be nice to be, Lace,” he groans, digs fingers into his right temple. Mutters at himself, “Just makes it all the more obvious how deep I’m in.”

She wasn’t exactly renowned for her conviviality, is the thing. Maybe it was because she was too busy quartering enough acrimony for half of the Outpost to permit anything more than that curt manner of hers. Then again, if he were stuck in here, rather than in the HQ the way he was, dealing with the alcohol-engorged egotism of recruits, those scorch-marked impressions of undue privileges that fizz in the crease of their palms…hell. It’d probably file him down the same.

“I’ll be insulted if you interpret that as kindness,” she dismisses, the deep pitch of her voice flat. The inconvenienced turn of a page, “Anyone who ends up in a conversation exceeding two words with that guy always asks. Unfortunately, I have reason to not blame them. But if it’ll get you out of my hair sooner than later.”

Kendall sighs. Rounds back to that subject of convictions.

 _His_ convictions. Which felt more settled upon the shifting-powder stage of desert sand than on the pedestaled canyon rock they were suppose to be.

Maybe convictions weren’t meant for out here. Out here, where things so easily could beat them down. What was actually sure, anymore? Not the mountains that erode away, melt from glass-sharp wind. Not the concrete or granite beams of architecture that crumble and rot and give to time. Not even the staunch steel of Old World tech that falls to its knees if you had the right type of ammunition.

So, definitely not Kendall’s will or beliefs or judgement in the face of Courier Six.

Might as well beat the Wasteland to it, right?

At least he’ll feel infinitesimally better about it, thinking that it was his choice.

Kendall’s already asking for another drink by the time he downs the first.

* * *

“-ou packed?”

Kendall grunts, a confused, but mostly unconcerned sound. He turns his head away from the source of what _might_ be a question. Which, personally, he’s never been a big supporter of. Asking sleeping people questions, that is. It’s rude. And pointless. Understanding the remaining human population was hard enough when you were awake; how was anyone expected to decode syntax when the world around you wasn’t even tangible yet?

Right now he was still in the realm of unbridled color, unrestricted and free from rules of gravity, from boundaries of lines and angles and shapes. Free from manifest definition.

He’s not so far away, though, that he doesn’t register the finger on his jaw, or how it directs him back towards…?

His eyelids flutter open reluctant, more drowsing into focus with a languor than anything.

The light of a PipBoy is just enough to highlight the amused glint of a face. An ethereal green in the darkness that persuades Kendall to think he’s not as conscious as he’d thought.

“Are. You. Packed?”

Kendall blinks. And, oh. His delayed return of “Yeah,” comes out thick, grit in his throat.

James says, “You don’t _look_ packed,” while Kendall’s hands drag up clumsy to grab at the arm still hovering over him, to twist it to check the tiny screen of the Vault device. He pinpoints where it reads _06:37_ , wincing at the sudden brightness.

_Five more minutes, Mom._

“I am.”

He is. And he herds James backwards so he can sit up from where he’d crashed on a bottom bunk, a mattress scented too strong of Coyote tobacco chew and moonshine. Better than the one in the corner DeLoso has stained with a variety of stale snack foods, anyway.

There’s a pause as he gathers himself, wipes a palm over his face, combs nails through his hair. It clings to his knuckles. And James’ voice is just above a whisper, a level mindful of the dozing bodies around them, “That’s all your bringing?”

Kendall glances up at him, suspect. Explains even, “This is all I _have_.”

 _This_ , being what he normally totes around - his 9mm and combat knife - paired with what was left of his rations that week of stimpaks, water, and pre-War nonperishables.

Which apparently isn’t good enough for someone who has a decently-sized satchel on their back, strapped messenger-style across their chest. Kendall eyes it as he stands, wondering what exactly is in there.

James’ crooked smile erases whatever’d been in his expression, “I’ll share.”

Of course he will.

He nods the way of the exit, “Well? Move out soldier.”

Kendall just squints at him, bleary-eyed. There’s no way he’s exposing his back to James. This was James’ plan, James was leading the way.

James is unbothered by his demur. He starts forward. Kendall follows him right out into the open air.

And James hadn’t been fucking around with the concept of ‘first light.’ He meant it. Literally and militaristically.

The sun is still hidden beneath the canyons that draw across the horizon, it’s gleam barely dyeing the blue of night a different shade. Nautical twilight.

Cicadas are still calling out from the corpses of grass blades, the Outpost’s fluorescent spotlights still buzzing at full power, center-staging the prodigious statues that mark the unification of the Rangers and the NCR. It’s hard not to glare as they come up on it, even if he feels pretty guilty doing so.

James slows to a stop, next to it, the large metal-assemblage foot of a Ranger stamped firm against the ground to the left of them. He’s checking his PipBoy - _has been_ checking it from the moment they passed through the doors of the barracks - a look of concentration denting his forehead slightly.

And Kendall’s kind of floored at the whole situation, when it strikes him. It’s an almost comfortable silence between them, and Kendall’s not used to seeing James’ face so... casual. He stares as James mutters a remark or two to himself.

And he casts his eyes away. A heartbeat in his stomach.

Okay. Maybe just James is comfortable with the silence. Kendall is not so much in denial that he doesn’t realize he’s on the edge of freaking out. It’d almost be stupid if he wasn’t.

The fact he wasn’t completely awake yet helps, a little. There’s the fogginess in his head, the lingering numbness to his skin and the weight to his lids that shelves the absolute comprehension of what he’s delving into.

Not that he didn’t have plenty of time to shuffle through that last night. It’s what kept him from getting much sleep, other than the usual, watching the actuality of it all dance along those support beams of the top bunk.

Either James is super focused on his pre-planning - ha, right - or he possibly might get that Kendall needs a moment to come to.

…Both seem so unlikely, given James’ character. But, really, who’s to say Kendall knows him at all?

Courier Six. He was on a mission with _Courier Six_ , being granted the opportunity to observe just how he operated, up close and personal. Something that could be indispensable somewhere down the beaten path. So.

Kendall takes a breath, a lungful of morning air. Cooler than the afternoons, but just as heavy, a smothering denseness that settles confining.

It’s when he’s securing on his beret that James resumes his march without a word. Kendall trails him, dubious, at his flank. It’s beginning to brighten out, now.

James’ grip is doubled on the strap to that bag, then. The strap that is worn, especially around where he clutches to it, looking like it could snap or tear in two at any moment. But it holds strong.

Their boots dip down the sharp decline that connects the Outpost to the rest of the Mojave, dodging and skirting around the chassis of forgotten cars that parade what very little left of the I-15 asphalt there was there.

Vehicles like that were all over the Wasteland, but here, this part of the harsh-angled road, it was a graveyard. Ghosts that communicated through sporadic clicks and the deep, tinny echo of groans.

Kendall doesn’t want to be the one to break first. But he can’t stand it. Silence is a welcomed thing until it lets you think. Then it’s a disquieting intruder.

He opens his mouth, closes it. Forces out a sentence that reveals none of his hesitation, “So do you actually have a plan? One that isn’t ‘guns blazing,’ I mean.”

And he pretends to watch his feet, be wary of unstable rock and stray auto parts. Please. He has this fuck of a hill memorized down to each dirt particle at this point.

It’s a good question, though. One he’s curious to. A goddamn Ranger couldn’t make it in and out of Vault 3 and be accounted for- a _Ranger_. He doesn’t know how they compare to James, but, objectively speaking, the amount of training most of them have gone through was astounding and admittedly intimidating.

Yeah. Intimidating. James pulled that off fine, either way.

By now James is grinning, only says, “Sure.”

 _Sure_.

Kendall pulls another breath through his nose, lets it bake the back of his throat, “Is that a _no_ , or a _you’re not gonna tell me_?”

Nothing. That grin is still frozen on James’ face.

And James chooses that moment to walk over the body of one of those automobiles instead of around it, his footsteps morphing into the hollow thud of a heartbeat while the thing fusses indignant beneath him. He surveils the plain that adjoins the road, where feral ghouls and radscorpions are keen on making an appearance.

Kendall tries again, eyes following as James takes to jumping between the jigsaw pattern of cars in their path, “And what makes you think you can do what Anders couldn’t?”

That one gets an answer. Emphasized by the bang of steel when he lands on the tailgate of a small pickup, “I don’t.”

Kendall’s steady pace almost falters, “...Come again?”

James gambols back down to the Mojave floor from his metal playground, almost on top of Kendall, two feet fixing beside him. All poised nonchalance.

“I don’t. Think that.” He clarifies. Adjusts that pack of his, shifting it around on his shoulder. Shrugs, “Who knows? We could totally die.”

Kendall can’t even muster up the energy to balk. He looks off, equable, “You know, you’re kind of really horrible at this reassuring thing.”

A laugh.

The terrain flattens out, more, pavement curving absolute north. It marks a greater need for vigilance, where it steers them. More danger, potential from all sides.

A bullet hole-ridden sign with an arrow, _Las Vegas_ , and _Primm_.

The dip of a ruined overpass.

He files through the questions that buzz at the tip of his tongue, omitting a few for later. Quieter, alert to their surroundings, “You said you had people that help you, sometimes,” holds, allows for an interlude, before, “Why couldn’t one of them have tagged along? Instead.”

“They could’ve.”

“Why me.” He reasserts.

But doesn’t expect the straightforward, “I pick who seems best suited for a job,” and his follow-up to that doesn’t make it out of his mouth before James is tacking on, “Usually.”

“Usually.” he repeats, like he’s never heard the word before, “Meaning?”

“Meaning maybe I just wanted you to come with me,” James says, reconning the vast stretch of the Ivanpah Dry Lake.

It’s almost pink, the shimmer of the sand and the dust storms within the bed, the Mojave landscape sheening a soft mauve, the hue lustering from the breaking dawn.

Mauve. Kendall remembers James not knowing what the color looked like. He sort of wants to tell him. _This_.

“…Why aren’t we taking Highway 95 through Novac?”

James doesn’t address or react to the sudden change, takes to it easy, “Too long. Plus, I don’t think you’d wanna have a run-in with the Legion,” and his head snaps towards him, like he’d just savvied a fact, “You’re kind of…” eyes roaming full over Kendall, mouth twisting in distaste, “conspicuous.”

Kendall can’t help but assume that means James is keeping around a few friends he shouldn’t have. If his NCR regalia is such a problem.

He bites his tongue. “The interstate isn’t safe either.”

“You’re right, it isn’t,” James agrees, light. Glibbed. And the sun punctures the skyline, slices across the desert, across James’ teeth as he smiles, Vegas gold. “But who said anything about sticking to the road?”


	6. When I Get Low (I Get High)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “How do you do it?” How does he put himself together, perfect. Pretend and veil and front so flawlessly. Play the part, embrace the role so fucking assiduously he’s able to become it.
> 
> How does he fabricate that _mask_.
> 
> And why does Kendall want to break it so fucking bad?

* * *

“That was very _guns blazing_ to me.”

He bites that out in a huff, James shifting into view from around the wall Kendall’d used as a barricade, crouching down beside him.

Only responds with, “How are you on ammo?” Wipes the sweat from his forehead with the inside of his wrist.

Kendall pants, ejects his magazine, pops it back in. “Fine.”

A clip is tossed at him, anyway. He fumbles it into one of the pockets of his armor.

“Aren’t we clear?”

James cleans at an area of his Pipboy screen with the pad of his thumb, studying something before confirming, “Yeah. Keep it down, though. Might be some around back I don’t feel like inviting to the party.” Then he’s rising, clapping Kendall on the arm, “Let’s go.”

That bag is slung over a shoulder, the one that’d been dumped next to him, the one he’d been told to stay by.

They’d reached the South Vegas ruins in good time, late morning, early noon. Hadn’t run into much trouble on the route James’d chosen. Thankfully. But the two-bit hostiles they _did_ come across, James had him deal with. Alone. Told Kendall he’d compensate the ammo, uninterested.

The ammo wasn’t exactly the part Kendall was concerned with. Kendall wasn’t a fucking _mercenary_. Sure, he’d signed up to help James. But, bodyguarding? Not so much. It’d almost had him believing James surviving so long, was only due to the fact he was being protected like some sort of brahmin-baron.

Not totally impossible, considering the amount of blown up reputations he’d witnessed a few cowardly bounty hunters receive.

Except, for James, it wasn’t true. And he knew that. So it ended up being more annoying than anything. He’d let it slide only because it was nothing that put his life in danger, much. It was either bark radscorpions, bloatflies, two instances a molerat.

He couldn’t say the same if it’d been cazadors. Or those deathclaws they’d brushed past in the distance, between the Junction 15 railway station and Quarry.

He’d shuddered at the sight. There were so many of them.

And home was so _close_.

There was about as many deathclaws there, as there had been Fiends here, in this area just inside the ruins.

Those were a little harder to deal with than the molerats. And _those_ James had helped with.

But.

Kendall strains to his feet, more circumspect to comply. He eyes James’ back as he’s led to what looks to be the way of a three-wall shack, a sort-of makeshift shelter, sturdied by ridged sheets of aluminum. He also eyes the blasted-open concrete building that shields the entrance to Vault 3 from view, where it’s embedded.

“We’re not gonna attempt that shit again, are we? In _Vault 3_? Not all of us survive by the sheer will of miracles, yah know.”

He was right, James reaches the shack-structure and drops his gear down next to a grenade box. Turns with a breathy laugh, “No. I had something better in mind.”

And drops his pants.

Kendall blinks, and, wow. Unbelievable, how swiftly he can come to regret every single one of the life choices that have led him to this very moment.

“…I don’t think I can express how much I _do not want to know_ , but- for the sake of me getting out of here alive: James. What _the_ _hell_ are you doing?”

The image of James undressing is blocked off by a pile of off-black leather smacking Kendall in the face.

“Get dressed,” is also tossed at him.

He catches them both, snides, “Strange request coming from someone who’s standing in their underwear.”

James sighs, half-impatient, half-blindingly-delighted, removes an article of black leather from the black leather bundle in Kendall’s arms.

Shakes it out, held up to reveal the Great Khan emblem flaunted on the back of a vest.

“Welcome to the Great Khans,” James says, a sarcastic lilt to his congenial line. He returns the fabric, thrown over the top of what Kendall guesses are pants, now. “Your first task is to deliver this shipment to Motor-Runner.” The bag at their feet gets a gentle nudge. Kendall hears how something rattles inside, muffled.

James peeks at his reaction and smiles, “Don’t worry, we’ll get to your initiation later.”

“You want…me- us, to pretend to be Great Khans carrying out a drug deal?” he recounts, hoping he’s misinterpreted, “You want us to just- walk in there, and hook them up?”

“Schpingo.” James fastens up the pair of denim cutoffs he’s sheathed himself in.

“Great.” And Kendall follows suit. Unbuttoning and shrugging out of his NCR jacket. Replacing it with the ‘Khan vest and…leather pants. _Leather_. He cringes as he tugs those up, more than a lot jealous of James’ jeans.

But he’s in the process of zipping up the vest when his hands bump the dog tags still ornamented around his neck. Makes him hesitate.

It didn’t sit right with him, taking them off. Ever. It felt wrong, imagining the absent weight of them.

So his movements are lead, reaching up with the intent to remove them, until he’s stilled.

Kendall looks up, but James is looking down, fingers working as he flattens the tags against Kendall’s chest, tucking the chains underneath where the vest lay sticky, fierce, against his skin, glued with beads of sweat.

They’re easily concealed at the top, the elevated collar hiding them from view. And James finishes the zipper’s course, pulling the slide all the way up to the top-stop, before he deliberates and rolls it back down a couple inches.

Kendall doesn’t know what to say.

A “thanks” probably would’ve sufficed, if he’d gotten the chance. By the time he gains control of his mouth James is rummaging through his pack, shimmying free a small crate Kendall assumes is their ‘chems shipment.’ Then he’s shifting to rub his hands across the dirt.

And is back up in Kendall’s face, wiggling the fingers of his earth-blackened palms. He announces, almost inspirited, “Time to get filthy.”

Kendall frowns. “No thanks.”

“Too bad I wasn’t asking,” and Kendall dodges the grime that comes at his cheek- “You can’t go in there looking like you just bathed, dude.”

 _Just bathed_. That’s hysterical. As if _Kendall_ is the one who could’ve just trudged from his fucking _penthouse suite_.

He feels more than disgusting after the 5-hour trek here. The grime already on him seemed so thick it could’ve been an extra skin between the leather and his own.

Kendall thinks this, bewildered, as he watches James switch to smearing the dirt on his own face, the color deepening, dark, as it adheres to the perspiration on his forehead. Down the sides of his neck and his exposed chest.

He looks like an absolute lunatic.

“You realize we’re disguised as _Great Khans_ , right? They live in _tents_ , not burrows.” He teeters his head side-to-side in ironic consideration, draws out the ‘ _m_ ’ in “ _M_ aybe you’re taking this too far?”

James appears downright offended. “Hush.” And he captures Kendall’s face in his hands, smudging and tainting with chafey strokes- his nose, the hollow under his eyes, the edge of his hairline-

Kendall sputters, jostles him off. Spits out the taste on his tongue.

“I wasn’t done.”

“Tough shit,” he hisses.

“Just let me fix your hair.”

 _His hair_. Geez. “No.” It sounds petulant, as he scrubs at his cheek with a forearm.

James beams, “I’ll be gentle.”

Kendall sighs, but lowers his arm, waiting expectant with an eyebrow hitched.

He looks plenty satisfied at that. Steps forward to rake fingers back through the roots of Kendall’s hair.

“You’re having way too much fun with this,” Kendall mumbles. It’s meant to sound disapproving. Doesn’t quite make it there.

And James continues to make sure each strand is sufficiently defying earth’s pull before he backs off.

“How do I look?” Kendall feists, dry, “Almost as insane as you _literally_ are?”

James snorts, stills the twitching at his lips, scratches at his nose. “Uh… Actually pretty hot, Major.”

He rolls his eyes, “Yeah. Okay. Are you ready yet? For the _real_ job, I mean. Or would you rather find another unsuspecting victim to force a makeover from hell on, first?”

“Do me, then we’ll go.” James’ head ducks down, a slight tilt, for Kendall. Kendall gives in, more than eager for this all to be over with.

He starts out the way James had, raking upwards, a half-assed shuffling. Until he thinks of those haircuts a lot of the gangs have, then he slicks most of James’ hair towards the middle, to a crest, like that.

James pulls back, and Kendall smirks.

“Did you just give me a fohawk?” His fingers bump lightly along the shape, checking it with narrowed eyes, suspicious-like.

“Maybe.” Kendall laughs, short, “Is that what it’s called?”

James drops his inspection, staring at him- no, his mouth. Says distracted, “Mohawks are real ones,” and “You should do that more often.”

“Give you a mohawk?”

“Laugh.”

“…Right. I’ll keep that in mind.” He watches as James stuffs the chem crate into a smaller sack to hook over his shoulder, their own armor stored with the rest of his equipment. “Are you not gonna zip that up?”

“Hm?”

“Your vest. It’s-” Kendall scrutinizes the gap of skin the thing leaves defenseless, the scrawl of James’ scars that present visible. He bites his lip, “If this goes south, it’d probably be a good idea to cover up… And those are kind of…” he uses James’ word from earlier, reaching out to fit the zip in place, “ _conspicuous_.”

He fastens it three-quarters of its track, knowing James will get what he means.

But what he voiced was only one of the reasons he didn’t want him to show…those. Marks like that, they felt sacred. Like you were turning your past into the Museum of History, for anyone to gawk at, if you bared them.

For as cryptic as James was, so far, Kendall found it odd he hadn’t looked at it the same.

All that revealed itself now, though, was a tip of pink underneath the outline of muscle there.

James doesn’t provide a comment on the subject.

Just nods. Gestures, “Come on.”

\--

“This is what I’been waiting to see! A big bad Khan bringing in the medicine. How ‘bout you toss some Psycho my way?”

The female has a voice that grates at him, a chem-trashed pitch that digs into his bones. She’s the greeter. The guard. But she has plenty of cronies behind her, spread out around the entrance. Armed. Some with _incinerators_ for fuck’s sake.

Kendall has to shove his hands into his pockets. This plan is decent, he knows that. Even if there’s always a risk. Always a risk. It could work.

But he can’t shake the feeling. Of how blaringly obvious it is that he’s NCR. And this here, in front of him, standing the paragon of cool and composed, is Courier Six.

And, yeah. About that. The whole _Collected & Unaffected _ vibe? Kendall needs to rip a page from his book, before they go any further. _Before_ they’re in the heart of the lair of completely unpredictable enemies.

He’d tried not to _see_ , is the thing. Out front. The Fiends’ own form of decoration or entertainment. It’s neither surprising, nor an unfamiliar view- he just wishes he hadn’t _seen_ , right before entering the nest of who- _what_ \- had done it.

It was morbidly grand, the arbitrary ornamentation of unlucky wastelanders that wandered too close, into the swarm. Hooks where their head used to be, splayed out like a roasting brahmin. Some impaled, hung from the center of their abdomen.

At least a week old, most of them, made the smell almost unbearable. But one- one was fresh- that day or the day before. It swung in its snare, a squeaky, pendulum cry, in an abrupt Mojave breeze.

The smell is comparable to in here, though. It’s awful. The stench of decay and intense odor, human waste and burnt flesh.

It’s only James’ response to the guard that drags him back, an aloof, perfunctory tone. Sardonic condescension, “Where’s your boss? He’ll wanna know you were hitting me up for freebies.”

“Hey- no need, no need! I was just kidding- you don’t gotta say anything about that. Motor-Runner, he’s in the Maintenance Wing. Straight through the door behind me, down the hall, down the stairs to the right.”

Then she cuts-out over her shoulder, “We have Great Khans comin’ through to see the boss. _Don’t shoot_ at them.”

Yeah. Kendall’d appreciate that.

But the command doesn’t make him any less leery, walking up the entrance’s path, up two stairs, deeper into the Vault, its floors clanging under their feet.

The Vault.

He’s never been in one before this. And it’s not that great of a first impression.

More claustrophobic. Confining and airless. The current circumstances detrimental to that fact.

They’re enclosed, trapped with only _a single_ means of escape, in this alloy-composed _pit_.

One Fiend is standing uncomfortably close to the door that should lead them to the bulk of this place, his hands shaking, worse than Kendall’s, charcoal eyes gouging wild into the two of them as they pass.

Kendall scoots in closer to James.

And he breathes out, a tremored, “god…” that he feels deep, vibrating, sinking inside of him. The vitriolic touch of acid in his throat.

Because, _imagining_ what a Fiend would call “home,” is nowhere _near_ the potency of that conception being a distance you can reach out and brush your fingers against.

The “Recreation Area” of Vault 3, is four things.

Constituted of this compact cafeteria that favors a diner. A vaguely wider “game room” that opens up to a second balcony floor. Hallways dotted with weapon-toting Fiends at every turn.

And some of the most repugnant, stomach-churning shit out of clergyman’s nightmares.

Walking through that game-designed space, ironically and architecturally-purposed for “ _family fun,_ ” is… _fuck_.

It’s chaotic in its diversity.

There’s some he can’t even tell if they’re fucking _alive_. Limped out on a maroon-stained pool table, eyes unseeing towards the Vault’s dim fluorescents, or stuffed into a corner, ringed and moated by syringes and debris.

Then there’s the ones that look like they wish they _weren’t_. Alive. Curled up hysteric, scratching and scratching and _scratching_. Too hard. Fingertips digging into the abrasion at the inner crook of their elbow. The whimpers peal horrid in his ears, the manic muttering about a fix.

One must be able to put two-and-two together. Sees them, “Great Khans,” and the sack. Zones in on it, eyes all pupil and voracious.

The restraint has to be all respect or all fear of this Motor-Runner guy to still them. To keep them from jumping James for the prize like they clearly crave to.

The sight of that, of those Fiends…it’s almost harrowing. Makes it harder to see them as collective species of monsters, easier to recognize the human part that simply got sucked into this excuse for surviving the Wasteland.

Makes it harder. But not impossible. Because around those few, is the kinetic maelstrom of the majority. The screeches and howls, a malign racket, orchestrating the brawl that takes up most of the area.

None of it is friendly, but some of it is not serious. Like this is just what they do to pass the time. For others it seems personal. Glass smashes. Body parts thunk together, into the ground, into trashed furniture. One girl is _biting_ someone, relentless.

And another appears, sudden, squashes herself up against Kendall’s side. His arm pinned under a well-endowed chest- “I wouldn’t mind hittin’ _that_. You put out, sweetie?”

The rasp sounds wrong in the bubblegum-sweet brand of her voice, more-so along with its off-color implications.

Hell- she can’t be older than _fifteen_.

It feels like the air is knocked out of him, paralyzing him into inaction as he gapes down at her purple lips, stretched lewd.

He doesn’t feel her hand slithering lower until it’s gripping him through leather.

Kendall gasps a curse, elbows her off an accidental force that’s rougher than necessary, collides into James’ back as he scrambles away.

A huff of a laugh comes through his lips, a vacant noise. Flat, “Maybe it was a bad idea, bringing you down here looking like that.”

Kendall swallows, grits out, “She’s so fucking _young_.” Rubs at his arm, trying to remove the presence of her from his skin, a cold-dread crawling up his spine.

James eyes are on him, too, before he’s guided in front, to lead. James instructs, “Left. Once we get past this door.”

Kendall doesn’t know how much that’ll help - being ahead - but he’d rather take on a violent attack from a Fiend, long before any of… _that_ kind, again.

He steadies himself. Eyes darting. “Where are we going?” Because, they’re, for sure, not following the provided directions from the guard.

“Living Quarters.”

“Why?”

“Well Motor-Runner’s obviously still kicking… Better to track down your Ranger pal before our attempt to cut off the head of the beast. Don’t think we’ll be real popular after that.”

Right. Okay. Kendall just hopes the Fiends aren’t so aware that they notice James and he aren’t exactly headed where they’re suppose to.

Because, some of them? Strike him as pretty coherent. In their own way.

He hears them complain behind walls, grouch, conversation:

_“Primm is going to much tougher to push around with that new sheriff down there-”_

_“Fucking Sarah gave me some bad shit last night, man, I’m telling you-”_

_“-could hit the Strip soon, rip shit up. Can’t believe Motor-Runner is such a pus-”_

And it gets worse in the those Living Quarters, as the door to Recreation hisses shut. There, where they’re making plenty use of the beds.

Christ.

He wishes he didn’t have ears at that point, knowing he will never, _ever_ , again want to come across the name “Billy.”

“Now which way?” Urgent to obstruct the choking ambience.

“I don’t know,” James admits, the air of it brushing the back of his neck, “But don’t slow down.”

So Kendall continues to walk, fake confidence in his destination.

Until they reach another two-floor opening, a living space or whatever.

Except with a jail cell.

Hostages. A man, a woman, a ghoul.

And there’s no way his expression is reigned in. Not when the man’s despairing eyes meet his own.

Kendall can tell that he’s not surprised by a Great Khan walking through, almost as if he’s tried and failed before to get any to sympathize, to care he and his companions are held captive by savages.

But, seeing Kendall, those same eyes spark something desperate.

Subconsciously he’s noting how his bitch-face may need some work if it’s _that_ obvious.

“ _Hey_ ,” Man whispers, begging, “You- kid. Please, help- _please_. Please-”

It’s when he veers his sights to _behind_ Kendall, that he flinches. Breathes out more dubious when he repeats, “Please…” Tries back to Kendall.

James practically shoves him towards the nearest exit of the room.

He waits until they reach it, “Jame-”

“Don’t.”

Kendall’s jaw drops, “You’re not- you can’t actually be thinking about _leaving_ them there-”

“Yeah- no. I’m not. I’m not _thinking_ about it at all, Kendall.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“That’s not my problem.”

“You know what they’ll do to them,” Kendall hisses, his own plea.

James looks down the hallway. Says, “Five. _Five_ Fiends in that room alone. Seventeen others we already passed _only_ in this area, _plus_ however-fucking-many in the _entire Vault_. If we even _touch_ that cell-”

Kendall shakes his head.

“-Kendall. I _won’t_. We can’t risk this thing for two and half people.”

He breathes sharp, mutters, “What’s the point of any of _this_ if we don’t.” But he knows. He gets it, he’s just- and he’d just _thought_ -

“…If there’s a chance on the way out-…” James’ compromise trails off. He’s squinting down that hall, an eery bright-red glow from emergency lights. Inserts, reanimated, “This way.”

Kendall yields, the furrow of his brow deepening as they come up on what had spurred James, an arm raising to halt him.

James thrusts his chin half-left, 8 o'clock of them.

They’re at the end of the hallway, where it connects to stairs, up. What makes it different than the others - sort of - is the sprawled, limb-lacking carcass of a Fiend that adorns the entrance. And the tripwire that James draws his attention towards.

“Whaddaya guess is up there?”

The dare isn’t barely out of James’ mouth before he’s sidling forward, stooping around the gore to disarm the trigger, and Kendall holds his breath, when he takes to stealing its grenade bouquet. Painfully gradual, careful.

James exhales with him, the frags coming loose. He passes them to Kendall. “For you.”

“What a romantic.” He clips the group of three to James’ belt.

Before the ringing toll of footsteps mutes the reply on James’ lips.

Kendall stills, the pace of his heart anticipating the approach, “‘Think it’s not- _totally_ suspicious for us to be over here?”

James doesn't look sure enough for comfort. Vacillating, before his irises solidify.

A coy side-eye, “Don’t hit me, okay?”

Kendall doesn’t have time to be perplexed at the apropos-of-nothing request. James crashes him against the Vault wall.

Gusts, “Go with it.”

Pins that mouth of his to Kendall’s.

It’s not exactly _protest_ that builds up and overflows into a grunt, from his throat, at it.

 _Go with it_. Uh… yeah, he could do that, probably. Ignore the panic swelling in his chest, twisting with something else into a dangerous concoction-

He’s just _going with it_ as his fingers curl at the back of James’ neck, at his bicep, as he presses into the touch clasped around his hip. Going with it. Going under when James nips at his lip before he’s pulling away, abrupt, at the greeting that signals an arrival, slices through the hazy sphere he was drug into.

In the form of a catty snarl. “Now I see why the Great Khans decided to cram up the Legion’s ass,” he thinks what comes out of the guy is a snicker, “You’re all fucking into each other's, too, huh?”

The parried-laugh James gives is scathing, “Yeah? And how many brahmin have you accidentally dipped your dick into this week?”

The bare of teeth, brown-slicked, “Whatever, man,” spit with the gist of “one bad trip and they never let you forget it.” Drifting off around the corner.

Kendall pushes up off the wall, watching until the Fiend cuts from view.

“Being right about that _strangely_ doesn’t feel like a victory.”

He snorts, tepid. Breathy. Doesn’t miss the ( _not_ brahmin-fucking-related) confirmation given by that guy, either.

They’d suspected. After Bitter Springs, the bad blood between NCR and the Great Khans was more than enough motive for it, for supporting Caesar out of spite, or as retribution. Kendall hadn’t thought the Khans would be in any shape to aid in a battle, especially not for Hoover Dam.

He wonders what else Caesar was offering them, in exchange.

James is already slinking up the stairway, pausing just out of range of a mine. “Has to be something up here…”

“Really? Wouldn’t put it passed them to rig up random parts of this place for fun.” He glances back at Dead Fiend on the ground. Winces. Thinks how Brahmin-Fucker hadn’t even bat an eyelash towards it, not ten feet between ‘em.

And the mine beeps.

Kendall almost gives himself whiplash, eyes wide, seeing James is _messing_ with the thing, working to defuse it.

He chides out his name, stern and warning, in alarm, about to take some sort of impulsive action, like, pulling his stupid ass away- when it goes silent.

Kendall doesn’t like how James’ mien is unadulterated relief.

“ _Shit_. I don’t know- how about you _not_ try to blow up your face next time?”

“Give me some credit, Major. Like I would purposely risk this work of art.” It doesn’t have its usual zing. But Kendall wishes the script would match his actions.

Especially when they reach the door the steps lead up to. It opens too fast, indifferent to their need for stealth, for what could be on the other side of it.

Which, vividly, does not impress James from what Kendall can see of his face. Even as someone is threatening, “Hold up, assholes!”

It makes him stiffen until he locates that someone over James’ shoulder in front of him. Kendall brushes past.

“Anders?” Who only has a combat knife wielded, clearly injured, sitting propped against the wall. A sort of disenchanting image when Rangers were painted the way they were. It must be the source of James’ expression.

Anders narrows his eyes, knife held higher, “Who the hell are you? How’d you get in here?”

“Major Knight,” he presents, fishes out his dog tags to flash, identity hanging off of his thumb, “I’m stationed down at the Outpost.”

“Could’ve stolen those tags off of anyone… The fuck are you dressed like that?” But he loosens a bit, weapon settling at his side. His breathing is heavy, irregular, sweat dripping down from under his Ranger hat. Face paled.

Kendall moves in closer, lowering down to his level. Focuses, “What happened?”

Anders sneers, but not at Kendall. “What’s it look like? I caught one in the leg.” A sigh, “I killed a dozen of those degenerates sneaking my way in, but,” and a grumble, “one got the drop on me.”

He shifts, trying to sit straighter, the movement looking painful, “I holed up in here after I dealt with the bastard; Fiends’re too stupid to unlock doors so I figured they’d assume whoever attacked had just taken off, or-” then he’s waving his hand, spurning. A dismissal. “I just need a day or two. I’ll take out Motor-Runner. Situation’s under control.”

Kendall stares, biting his tongue. Struggles with phrasing how terrible that plan is, without broaching chain-of-command. Or winding up with that knife in undesirable places.

James helps out. Debatably. His eyebrow is quirked, brazen. “Seriously? A day or two of resting isn’t gonna heal up that leg. It looks-” his nose wrinkles, “and smells- like it’s on the brink of infection.”

“And who the fuck are you _asswipe_?” Anders growls, galled. Kendall decides to insert himself when the grip on the knife tightens.

“James.” The name both a mollification to its owner and an answer to Anders. “He’s with-” edits, “I’m with him. Courier Six. Hsu thought he could help here.” He mentions, “You missed your check-in.”

“I don’t need any _support_. This was _my_ mission, and it’ll be completed- I just need a couple more days-”

“That’s great, Captain Cripple,” James sniffs, aloof. “Meanwhile, _we_ -”

“ _What he’s trying to say_ is-…Anders. Your leg…let us fix that up for you, alright? It’s not worth it. We can handle this, but you-” Kendall reasons, “should get back to McCarran. The Colonel’s probably really concerned- and guilty that he sent one of you guys out alone. Even if you’re more than capable. You know how he is, and he doesn’t need any more shit on his plate right now.”

Anders turns away, eyes shut. Whispers. “ _Goddammit_.” Reluctant, “Fine. I’ll head back.” The statement averse. “You better make good on what you said though,” through his teeth, “I want that Motor-fucker _iced_.”

Kendall only nods.

They don’t have a lot on them the way of supplies, but he spares a few stimpaks, and James passes over his Med-X.

Anders directs them to go back the way they came before opening up a panel of the far wall to exit through, a threshold to the entrance room of the Vault.

Then it’s to the Maintenance Wing. Fast, lest a junkie opt to be observant.

Kendall gripes as they walk, “Are you afraid you’ll like, _implode_ , or something if you don’t show your ass for five minutes?”

“Well my ass _is_ fantastic.”

 _So_ not the point. “You didn’t have to rile him up back there.”

“And?”

“And next time don’t be difficult for no reason?”

“I had a reason. A perfectly _good_ reason. Who’s to say that reason wasn’t justified?” James spouts.

Adds after an intermission, “So,” and, “Next time, huh?”

Kendall looks away from the writing on the walls. _QUIT YOUR WHINING!_ felt too much like a direct message from the world. “What?”

“Next time,” James restates, twists his head around to gleam dark at him, “You plan on there being one?”

Kendall realizes. Thrown until James breaks his gaze.

“I was just being thorough,” he sighs. Stronger, “Stupid to plan on anything when it comes to you, isn’t it?”

Kendall has no problem admitting that. It wasn’t a clandestine occurrence, anyway. James knows. His influence. The leverage under his belt. Or directly _below_ his belt.

And he doesn’t respond to it. Doesn’t have to.

They reach Maintenance. Where it seems even smaller with its deep-rusted tunnel walls, filled with bulky tech and the almost deafening pulse and churn of it.

He tries not to look like he’s hyperventilating. Arriving at this double-guarded entry. Sees James signify the sack of chems as a token of passage. Kendall’s more eyeing another massive incinerator. It’s spout aimed at his torso.

“Thank god,” Left of the Door Guard grinds, as an ‘okay.’

Kendall steps to follow James in-

“Wait here.”

And he balks, refuses with the imperceptible shake of his head.

No way. _No way_.

“I need you to wait here.” James stresses.

He takes a breath, searching James’ face, bottom-lip jutting out as his jaw clenches. “Yeah. Okay.”

“I’ll make it quick.”

But it’s not quick _enough_.

Kendall is fraying there, exposed and on-edge, standing by and anticipating as many situations as he can think up and scan for signs of.

He’d only caught the very tip of conversation between James and Motor-Runner; James’d entered, mentioned a package from a “Jack and Diane,” which sparked familiar, apparently.

A stale voice’d returned, pretty fucking monotone, “About goddamn time. Tell the Khans if they can’t keep a steady supply, we’ll find someone who can-”

Then came the waiting. And the stare-off. _Kendall v. Incinerator-Armed Right of the Door Guard_.

He doesn’t like being unprepared, though.

Which is terribly inconvenient when James, _eventually finally_ , exits Motor-Runner’s quarters and walks a clearly-slowed-pace up to him. Brisk. Shoves a Stealth Boy into his chest and smiles his shit-eating grin, “We gotta scat. Put that on and start it up.”

Superseded by an explosion contained behind that metal door.

James spins around, addresses the Guards, “That _might’ve_ been my bad.”

They die with the unborn spark of understanding and outrage in their eyes.

While Kendall _may_ be suffering from a fucking heart attack.

The Stealth Boy activates around him as James impels him onward. And, having never used one of these things, it’s beyond startling when a Fiend- _two_ Fiends- stumble right the hell past the both of them hunkering down the hall.

And Kendall can detect James. The shimmering outline of reflected light, because he’s looking for it.

They go undetected all the way into Recreation, where he calls out, “James,” under his breath, hasn’t forgotten, “those people.” Collides with James’ transparent form. “You said-”

“I said _if_. If there was a chance-”

“ _This is a chance_ -”

“-in the middle of being _hunted down_ Kendall-”

“James-”

“-know these devices on our wrist only last for so long-”

An immediate quiet, as a Fiend crosses their path, so close, Kendall’s breath fogs on the dirty metal of an assault rifle.

A stretch of ten seconds.

Kendall resolves. “…I’m going. By myself. I don’t care.”

James curses behind him, and Kendall spares a sentiment of victory at it. At how _he_ ’s the one switching up James’ intentions, for a change.

Because James is right behind him when he makes it back to the jail cell. Though his hand finds itself onto Kendall’s shoulder, lips a couple centimeters left from his ear, “ _They find their own way out._ ”

“ _Fine._ Do you have another bobby pin on you?”

James’ answering sigh sings bitchy, even with its low volume. Kendall takes it as yes, though, fumbles and feels for the object James likely holds out. His fingers run into- a forearm, and they trace down until they come in contact with the bobby pin in James’ palm.

The lock is old and tarnished and touchy, easy to crack. It’s opening the cell door enough to alert the three being held inside that they’re free to go whenever - and _only_ the three - that’s the tricky part. It groans harsh as it slides against rust and usually-inactive hinges. It makes him cringe, and it grabs the notice of two.

James is tugging him away, indisputable, by then. But Kendall’s one-hundred-fucking-percent okay with leaving now.

Cutting back through the game room, is less difficult because of the disorder and commotion, less risk of being spotted.

It’s _more_ difficult trying to dodge bodies.

Kendall’s already blockaded, twice, and he’s lost James. And he’s panicking, recoiling over and around things he’s desperate not to identify, evading accidental touches, flailing fists-

It’s bile in his throat when something seizes his torso-

“It’s just me.”

Kendall chokes relief, grabbing for James’ anything to tug them out of there faster.

“Don’t look right.” James warns.

And Kendall does not.

But he still, unfortunately, has _ears_. Knows it’s that girl. That girl younger than his little sister.

It’s only when they’re outside of that fucking Vault that he registers how little he was breathing _in_ side of it.

The pace of his lungs renders him dizzy, light-headed. His knees pull up, close, leaning against a wall of that shack they’re back at, where their shit was kept.

This is the part he hates.

The calm, the finish. The part where he can’t shut his eyes.

All those new images get to drudge thick, coagulated, unavoidable once you’re out of more present dangers to cling onto.

 _This_ …this was the fallout of every mission.

Kendall listens to James’ breathing. Overlooks that, between snapshots of the sunken skin of Fiends, the color of their nails and their teeth and their eyes- between that…and the mass of carnage and depravity, dirty needles stabbed in veins, fingers scratching at bone- is the sense of James’ lips.

A water bottle comes into view. Half-empty.

He doesn’t reach to take it.

James lowers down beside him, instead. Kendall continues to stare at ruined masonry.

“How do you do it?” How does he put himself together, perfect. Pretend and veil and front so flawlessly. Play the part, embrace the role so fucking assiduously he’s able to become it.

How does he fabricate that _mask_.

And why does Kendall want to break it so fucking bad?

He doesn’t even notice James failing to respond. Fingers are brushing his collarbone, handling the chains that lay there, studying the tags on them.

Kendall drops his eyes to watch James stroke the pad of his thumb over the Serial Number.

“Why are these so important to you?”

James muses, not unkind, curious.

But it’s stupid. The reason.

Kendall doesn’t want to tell him he’s _exactly_ like those idiots on the Strip. Trying to make themselves matter, be alive and impactful and _someone_ instead of just existing for two seconds and then never again.

That number made him belong. Become real. In records and- proof that he was born. Proof that he lived before he died.

Something he knew he didn’t need.

His mom, and Katie. _Them_ being alive and okay and- how much they cared about him was _enough_. Or, it _should_ be, because it _was_.

He didn’t need to be overlord of the goddamn Wasteland, or rich, or powerful.

He didn’t actually know what he needed.

“I don’t know.” He whispers, mangled, and turns away from James’ eyes. Not before he sees the comprehension in them, though. Like what Kendall’d said verified some hidden theory.

The tags feel heavier falling back down against his chest.

James balances the water on the bend of one of Kendall’s knees, another urge for him to take it, and Kendall does.

It helps clear the taste of that place from his tongue, soothe the tightness in his throat.

He wants to get away from here. Far away. But he also doesn’t want to get up. Or move. Or see the Outpost in the distance or the hill saddle it sits up on or those scrap metal statues.

It’s still too bright outside to find somewhere to sleep; the distance back isn’t great enough to make it necessary anyway. He figures they’re just taking the break here before they start south, when James folds cross-legged, parallel to Kendall. Sets a pouch on top of that grenade box he reaches into, piles a handful of pinyon nuts into his mouth.

Kendall licks his lips, “If I ask you a question…will you completely ignore me and act like you didn’t hear anything?”

James doesn’t look up from his PipBoy - which, what the hell could be on that thing that made it so interesting, had him always stuck to its screen - but the small curl of a smile sits there, wry. He swallows, “Try me.”

Kendall shoots, “Mr. House.”

“That’s not a question.” He informs, flat, rummages around his pack and throws a box of Crisps Kendall’s way.

“Tell me- will you tell me about him?” Finger tearing open an edge of the junk food.

“Such as?”

“Who is he?”

“A pompous snob who has a lot of cash and robots.”

“No shit.” Kendall says, blank.

James shrugs, jaw-crunching another round of pinyons.

He ventures again, recalling, “Back on the Strip… You said _talking_ _computer_. You were referring to him. Is House…” he shakes his head, “He’s just a man, right?”

“Probably.”

“…You haven’t met him either.” Kendall concludes. “But he talks to you. Face-to-…whatever.”

James laughs, humorless, “Yeah. Kind of hard to get him to shut up.”

He presses, maybe too fast, “And what does he want with you?”

Eyes tighten at that PipBoy screen. James is less casual than he was a moment ago, his shoulders up higher.

Kendall points out, from that morning, dry-edged, “You said you would share.”

Hazel flashes to his face. Indicative. Kendall holds the eye contact, unflinching. Rephrases, leveled, “Why are you the first person to step foot in the Lucky 38 in over 200 years?"

“You should be more concerned with your own faction, Major.”

“I am.” Insects buzz, and a crow caws, mixed in with the tension that builds with the unspoken, the scratch of the surface chipping away. “How much of a threat does Mr. House pose to the NCR? Do you know?”

James flicks a finger against a button of his PipBoy without looking down or away. The tune of _Johnny Guitar_ sibilants and croons wistful, from it, soft, gearing to hit the second verse. Obscure, “I wouldn’t lose sleep over Mr. House. He needs someone a bit more… _ambulatory_ , to do any real damage.”

Kendall considers that. Over the longing lyrics “ _What if you go, what if you stay? I love you…_ ”

“Okay…” he gives. Hazards, muscles and lungs taut, “Then how much of a threat are _you_ , James?”

He’s expecting a lot of different reactions, at the clear accusation. James’ laughter isn’t one of them.

And neither is the motion of him uncrossing those long legs of his to scoot in, right up into Kendall’s face.

He doesn’t stop himself from flinching this time.

“Why are you so eager to make me the bad guy?” James probes, leisurely. Pauses and tacks-on, “Assuming Mr. House is a bad guy.”

“I’m not,” Kendall spits. And he doesn’t know, out of the two of them, who’s more surprised that he brings up, “We had this conversation before _and_ after you fucked me. That you can’t blame me for wanting to make sure you’re-- were you just expecting me to be blinded by your celebrity status? I’m not an _idiot_.”

His jaw clenches as James studies him. Doubtful, “And this is about…the NCR?”

“What _else_ would it be about James? If you screw over the NCR- that’s my _family_ on the line. You have access to shit that-” Kendall shakes his head, “So tell me why, that I shouldn’t just ask you outright- about this.”

“Oh you can _ask_ all you want, _Kendall_.” Kendall shudders, then, tries to shift discreetly backwards from the ice-calm tenor of James’ voice, at the flick of his name. But James has his lips against Kendall’s ear, “ _Remember I don’t owe you anything_ , when I let you know I’m not helping Mr. House.” Kendall inhales. “Mr. House. Will not intervene. With NCR’s campaign.”

James’ nose trails the line of Kendall’s cheekbone, a ghost, his words a vibration in the contour underneath, to the slow pluck of a spanish guitar, “‘Believe me?”

What comes out of his mouth is a “Yes.” Heartbeat an uncomfortable speed in his chest.

And James pauses, prompts, “…But?”

“But…” Kendall repeats, confirms hollow. Breathes sure, “You’re not just doing favors for the NCR.”

 _That_ he was confident in.

At least, he’d thought so. Thought he considered the statement a truism, until James pulls back and makes it that way. “No.”

Clarifies, “NCR isn’t the only faction I’m doing favors for.”

Kendall doesn’t ask which one. Or who. Or how much or why.

Even though all of that matters.

Of course, his brain leaps to the most inimical of possibilities. _The Brotherhood of Steel_. _Legion_. Great Khans. Powder Gangers. Maybe the Omertas.

Sure. It could be benign. The Followers of the Apocalypse, even, in moderation.

It doesn’t stick as well, though.

And James’ expression conceals bar none.

Kendall casts his eyes down, pinching the leather stretched across his thigh. He tries for nonchalant, but, more than anything, the follow-up’s quiet and kind of pitiful, “Is it bad?”

“…You know things aren’t that simple.”

Did he? It seemed pretty simple to Kendall. And that grey area was terrifying and complicated.

“Back inside the Vault, I’d thought-” He bites his lip. “Those people. I didn’t mean to make it seem like you were wrong. I’d just assumed…”

Fuck. He doesn’t even know what he’s saying anymore. And he’d lied again. Kendall was- he had been- blinded by what everyone said James was.

 _Savior of the Wastes_.

James isn’t actually looking at him anymore. The complete opposite direction. But the muscle in his arm is clenched, like that night in Aces. His breathing is faster. Barely. Kendall wouldn’t have caught that if he hadn’t been trying to calm himself down earlier with its regular rhythm.

None of that transfers to when he speaks. If no one was looking, they’d might think James was inappreciably concerned.

“You can’t save everyone, Kendall.” It has that oracular air to it, again. Like he’s echoing from memory. But they could practically be reliving the same one, this round. It’s a sort of maxim, that twists inside of him, barbed and sickly, anyway. “It doesn't matter how fast you can run or how hard you think you try… even if it’s someone you care about. You just _can’t_.”

A rush of wind filters through their shack. Prickles goosebumps on his arms, despite the heat.

He stands up - after a moment of watching James’ hair ruffle, watching his lashes sweep as he blinked - dusts off those ridiculous pants.

Clears his throat. “We should change.”

And he offers out his hand. Hating the way James accepts it without hesitation.

He grips tighter, even as James is already back towering those couple inches above him.

“No more questions,” Kendall promises. Revises, “This time.”

This time.

Because, who was he trying to fool here?

There’d be another.


	7. Dear Science

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Sure. Watching people die’s been an educational experience for me, too.”

* * *

It’s not suppose to feel like anything anymore.

Killing.

It shouldn’t. Not through the adrenaline of knives whistling past your throat, lasers buzzing, searing, past your head, grenades rumbling the earth beneath your feet.

The first time, he remembers, having to take someone down: he was nineteen, and, hell, most kids were way younger than that when they had to pull a weapon on someone - but Goodsprings didn’t prepare you much for enemies that could _talk_.

It was a chem addict. A little ways outside of McCarren. Kendall was filed in with a bunch of other newly enlisted, at the end of a patrol, on route back to base.

There were a few of them that came around, squat in the trashed shell of an old motel nearby. _El Rey_. And this one just…

The look in his eye was something Kendall hadn’t learned yet in the Wasteland. Not in a human. And it was like the guy wasn’t - was like he was looking into the face of a feral ghoul.

Kendall’s insides felt as hollow as those eyes when he’d drawn his 9mm.

The guy’d been gunning towards some quiet kid that’d been falling behind - Marx? Mac? Martin? - but he hadn’t been paying attention, had his sights to the dusty plain, missing home.

Kendall’d pulled the trigger.

Pulled it again. And again.

Once in the arm. Two in the chest.

They landed with this _sound_ -

This god-awful _thump_ that tore and twisted and called red onto the stained concrete - so much red on top of red.

And someone patted him on the back, brief and dutiful, and that kid was staring at him all overly thankful. The whole world in his irises.

But Kendall had been staring at the body. Watched it twitch and wheeze until it was still. Red. Pooling and crawling slow to surround-

Chem addict.

That was the guy’s name now. Forever and forever and.

Names don’t matter much anymore. He knows that now. Knows not to care when he watches a Fiend’s head fly off of their shoulders, knows not to care when a nobody Wastelander hits the ground, or when plasma turns a man to ash, erasing him from existence. He knows.

It’s easier now.

But it still wasn’t suppose to feel like anything.

Fuck if he couldn’t feel it every time a bullet pierced skin, though.

Wonders if James could feel it too.

* * *

 

_01.26.82_

\---

" _You know, I think all news, whether it's good or bad, brings us closer together. Don't you?_ "

Kendall snorts at the radio.

He’s jamming his finger into the _5_ on a console, too rough, a click _thump_ over and over and over, until it births the number on its terminal screen.

A blinking green cursor, blares expectant.

He tries not to be _too_ negative working through weekly inventory checks. At least, with this, he gets to sit down. At a real desk.

Pressing buttons was, also, a hell-of-a-lot less stress on his hands than churning out data under a stubborn-to-show pencil.

It keeps Kendall from rushing the task; the sooner he finishes up _here_ , the sooner he’s back up _there_.

Instead, he stalls between items (all types of weapons, ammo, food, water, meds) balancing on the hind legs of that chair, tapping melodies over the songs he doesn’t like, listening to Mr. New Vegas’ updates on things he’s usually already aware of. Or should be.

“ _…remains dormant, despite NCR's effort to reactivate the facility. The chief scientist of the plant vowed to fix the problem, blaming it on an atmosphere of, quote, severe under-appreciation._ "

Kendall brings his eyes to the ceiling. So, great to hear _that_ was going well.

Was any part of this campaign, yah know, _not_ going to shit?

He brushes the hair back from his forehead, sweat-dampened, enters another number he recorded from supply earlier.

_Rad Aways_.

“Hey Chair Force, how’s the desk flyin’ today?”

A _2_ and a _4_ tap beneath his index, unconcerned, “You really wanna mess with the guy who’s logging your rations for the week?”

“Aw, please, you’re too nice for that.”

Kendall spares a look at Turner, a recruit that’s not _totally_ horrible to be around, “Am I?”

Turner is even more gangly than Kendall is, even with the lesser three inches of height. He held himself in this way that didn’t help, either- lolled and dangled like he was tired or-

Okay, Kendall’d thought he was pumped full of Buffout the first time he’d met him. It wasn’t just his limbs that hung, it was his eyelids and that goofy smirk of his that drooped. Kendall can’t _imagine_ how he’d be any use in actual combat.

But he was decent enough. Or too lazy to bother participating in any shit that irked the higher-ups.

“Yeah…” he drawls, grinning, “Rather not find out otherwise.”

Kendall quirks, “Good idea.”

Turner pushes off from where he’s draped over one of the dividers that rest between desks. “See yah later, sir.”

He waves over his shoulder, distrait. Continues down the list, one hand at the terminal, the other twirling through the crown of his hair; he’s fidgety. For once, too pent-up for the mundanity.

_And_. He can't _stand_ the song that’s playing.

It’s mushy. A significant observation when the others he has to hear all the time were almost as bad. But this one, like, god.

Of course it drags. Like someone’d slowed it down ten times over.

An hour-long prolonging of syllables in, “ _Until the moment we met I had no one to cling to._

_To be, just, everything to, to be my own true love_ ,” that blends into:

“ _If this is a dream, let me keep-_ ”

“Wow.”

“- _on dream_ \- wh-” the chair underneath Kendall drops back down on all fours with a clunk, tile scraping. “ _Jesus_.”

James props himself next to the terminal. All…smug-like. “Didn’t peg you as a singer.”

Kendall flushes, “I’m not- I don’t.”

“ _Oh_ ,” there’s an eyebrow raised at him, glinting, “My mistake.”

“Clearly.”

“But if you _did_ ,” James decides, smiling artless, “Then you’d sound really good.”

He tears his eyes away, back to green-digits, “Shame.”

_225_

_[Return]_

_56_

_[Return]_

“So?”

“Hm?”

“‘You gonna get to the part where you tell me what you want?”

“What I want?” James hums, lifts up his fingers to count on, “ _Well_. Your undivided attention, that dirty look you give me when you’re mad, my Deathclaw steed- _really_ bummed I never got one- and, uh, Fancy Lad Snack Cakes?” A frown. “I haven’t come across any in _forever-_ ”

Kendall slights, caustic, “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Oh hey- there’s the look,” and James’ laugh tapers off. “While you’re fulfilling the rest of those though, I _might_ have a thing.”

Kendall glances up at him, expectant, “A thing.”

_92_

_[Return]_

“A job thing. A request-y job thing.”

“Concerning…?”

_14_

_[Return]_

“Concerning something I’m open to company for.”

His fingers pause. Voice lower, “You’ll have to be really convincing.”

“For you? Or them?”

He presses his lips together, forgos, “What’ve you got?” Eyes on James’ hand on the edge of the desk. The bruises on his knuckles. The blood under his fingernails-

“How do you feel about the OSI?”

Kendall looks back up to his face. Blinks, “I repair shit, sometimes; I don’t know anything about science or, whatever.”

“Neither do I. _So_ it’s probably good Hildern only contracted me to _retrieve_ data from an experiment instead of conducting one.”

“Okay,” Kendall swivels the chair towards him, “I get OSI is our branch but, _how_ exactly does satisfying a scientist’s curiosity help us _at all_?”

“You mean, preventing a food shortage isn’t high on NCR’s list of priorities?” with mockingly scandalous shock. “I thought governments were all about proactive ideas.”

“Right, James- _this_ ? Around you? Is not the government,” Kendall lectures, “We’re its military, and most us don’t take the time to give a rat’s ass about the- the process, or- _technicality_ of that kind of thing,” adds, “This projected lack of future production you’re implying, by the way, won’t affect the Second Battle. So, honestly, I still don’t get why _you’_ re concerned.”

“Kendall,” he deigns, “for 2,000 caps, I’ll be concerned about pretty much anything.”

_Fuck,_ and whose account was _that_ coming out of?

He keeps his jaw from dropping, maybe, composed enough to claim, “If that was an attempt to convince me your only motivation in all of this is money, then try again.” Kendall dealt with enough mercenaries to know that wasn’t the case. “And where the hell is this data supposedly located that Hildern’s compensating you so much to get it?”

“Where the secrets of veggie growth are hidden,” James twinkles his fingers in the air, “22.”

“That-” he swallows, “You’re talking about another _vault_?”

“Yeah,” his hands dropping back down, “Why? Not aesthetically-pleasing enough for you?”

James says it light, though, like he already understands the why. Kendall mutters, tugging at the roots of his hair, “Felt like a fucking cage.”

And he sees James ‘thinking’ - the way his face is just blank besides the tightening around his eyes. Any change is micro, and Kendall kind of finds that…interesting. How James practically shuts everything else off to make certain decisions.

Held until something locks in.

It reminds Kendall of the “ding” of an egg timer.

Or the detonation of a grenade. Depending.

“It was just an offer, obviously,” James shrugs, cardboard. But then he’s reaching out. Fingers gesturing through Kendall’s bangs, “Where’s your beret-”

“Hey, Knight?”

And Kendall starts. Jerks away from the touch of James’ hand- too fast too frantic too _obvious_ \- at someone else’s voice coming up behind him. It’s that vice in his chest, the air that becomes solid in his lungs.

It’s Turner, again; a microscopic reassurance.

Kendall can’t come up with many people here he’d’ve been _more_ relieved seeing at that moment.

Kid’s slow.

Not slow enough that he doesn’t look between them for a second, before refocusing on what was in his hand, though.

“Ranger J, uh… he wanted me to let you know to remove those extras from water in the database,” Turner scratches his cheek, “Shipment didn’t make it.”

Kendall brings a hand to his mouth, sighs, “Great, fantastic.”

Hopes the movement isn’t jittery when he takes the sheet Turner has.

Who he expects to _leave_ after he dismisses, “Thanks.”

Who doesn’t, and is still standing there after Kendall slides the memo onto his desk. This concentrated look on his face directed at James until he snaps his fingers, points self-satisfied, “ _You’re_ the Courier.”

Kendall twists his lips in distaste, now, largely reconsidering the not-terrible-to-be-around trait he’d allowed himself to _entrust_ earlier. The fawning thing? Ridiculous.

James is smiling, bemused. A fucking icon.

And kid’s just barreling on, the most energy he’s ever seen from him. Which isn’t saying a _whole_ lot. “Yeah- you’re like,” with hand motions, “Like _Captain Cosmos_ or- or _Grognak the Barbarian_ , right, yah know?”

“Sure, sure. Just without the Moon Monkey,” James reasons, jocose. Kendall stares, lost. If there was actual meaning in that exchange of words, he doesn’t catch it.

James peeks back at Kendall from under eyelashes, rectifies, “But the Major here could be my Femme-Ra.”

Apparently, that’s funny. Because, Turner chuckles, and says, “Funny. That’s funny.”

Yeah. Okay. “Right- so if you two are done speaking another language…?”

“Oh. Sorry, sir.”

James turns on him while Turner shuffles off, “Don’t tell me you’re too cool for comic books.”

Kendall snorts, spinning towards the terminal to adjust the figures for Water, “Don’t tell _me_ I’m actually suppose to know whatever- moonmunkees or fem- _rahs_ are.”

James scoffs, indignant, “ _Femme_ -Ra, Kendall.” Like that makes a difference. “She held a love-hate romance with Grognak from issue 162, until issue 355, when she was killed off in the crossfire of Man-Saurian’s revenge. _Then_ , she’s brought _back_ in #358 through the sorcery of Skullpocalypse. But I _guess_ the publishers thought the Great War of 2077 was a good-enough excuse to stop printing,” James scoffs again, “so I don’t know what happens after the 360th issue.”

Kendall rolls his eyes, “The Wastes are truly a tragic place.”

“Doth speaketh true words, my Femme-Ra.”

“Yeah, about that, a couple problems with your little comparison,” Kendall glowers, “Starting with how I _only_ hate you.”

James sighs, stage-worthy, “That’s what Femme-Ra said in issue 128-”

“Please don’t know that-”

“-when she was a merely a villain intent on destroying Grognak’s village through her powers of _evil_ seduction.”

“Keep going with this, I dare you.”

James laughs, “I’d love to, but-” lifts himself off the desk.

Kendall ignores the jab under his ribcage, “Leaving?”

“I was kind of in the middle of a delivery- so.”

“You still run for them?” Kendall asks, “The Mojave Express?”

A beat. And he shakes his head, “More independent,” lips twitching at some backroom joke, “No contracts.”

“Oh…”

James looks him over, “I’ll see you around, Kendall.”

“…Wait-” _shit_ , “That- uh, that job.”

Kendall inhales, palms wiping on his pants. Elaborates, “If it’s all the same to you, then…” nods a slow affirmative, “But Jackson- my commanding officer, I don’t think he’ll go for it again.”

James’ expression and voice are smooth, “I’ll talk to him.”

“I don’t think… that’s the best idea,” he hints, eyes narrowed.

James just grins, “Why not?”

Disappears down the hall.

* * *

 

_01.29.82_

\---

“Isn’t it _my_ turn to ask the questions?”

“Um, no? I don’t recall being the one who’s always annoyingly cryptic and _scheme-y_.”

James gusts a laugh, dares arch, “I don’t think you play fair, Major.”

“Oh, that’s rich,” Kendall snipes, wiping down the muzzle of his pistol, “coming from you.”

They’re near the Grub n’ Gulp rest stop. James is perched on a rock, carving up an apple he nabbed from the 188.

Kendall’d just asked about one of his companions, after a comment about the OSI.

_“They just sound like they’re always talking out of their asses.”_ Because they did. Not that he was an expert on shit like biological functions or ecology; it was how they seemed more obsessed with wild possibilities than practicality. And from what James relayed of the conversation he had with Hildern, this whole thing was exactly that: the ramblings of a visionary.

_“My friend would’ve bitchfaced if he’d heard you say that,”_ James’d remarked _,_ though, a fond tint to the hazel in his eyes, _“Very idealist. At least when it comes to book-y learny stuff._ ”

And he doesn’t know what provoked him into digging at who this _friend_ was, especially when it was already obvious James wouldn’t bend, but he told himself it was strictly business.

“Alright,” James says, the tone of a dangerous ploy, “Quid pro quo: you show me yours, I’ll show you mine.”

Kendall reproves, “This isn’t a _game_ , James.”

“Then don’t play.” Nonchalantly crunching on a slice of apple, licking at the juice of it glistening the corner of his mouth.

…Kendall _really_ needs to stop taking the bait. “What do you even wanna know?” he sighs, relenting frustration. Leans back against the rot of a tree trunk.

It’s not like he’s _required_ to answer, right? He can avoid questions just as well as James, or, whatever.

And he’s expecting that he’ll have to. If he asks anything about the NCR, anything he could use against them, somehow, or put them at a disadvantage-

“What’s your little sister’s name?”

Kendall stunts.

All just- _earnesty_ there.

“Katie…” he gives, reverent in the only way he _can_ say her name. “Why?”

“Is that the question you’re going with?”

His teeth snap together. He supplants, “How many companions do you have? That help you with…jobs, I mean.”

“Counting you? Five,” then, “Six, once,” but, “It didn’t work out.”

Kendall stares down at his hands, tracing a scratch on the metal below them, refuses to linger on that. Waits until James fires back, “How old were you when your dad-…”

“Left.” He supplies. “I was six… Yours?”

James throws the core of the apple into the sand, heels at it. “9 years ago…ish” and he’s staring somewhere over Kendall’s shoulder, “He didn’t leave. Why’d you join the NCR?”

Kendall hesitates, brow furrowed. Reminds him, “I already told you that.”

James is leaning forward, then, elbows rested on his knees, a fist propping his chin, “Rule #2: you don’t earn an answer if you lie.”

And he feels he’s hit some metaphorical beleaguerment in his own fucking mind, with that, something defensive clenching in his chest. “Really. What’s rule #1?”

“I’ll tell you when you break it.”

“Do you _always_ make zero sense?”

All he gets is the raise of an eyebrow. “Your answer?”

“ _Same as last time_ ,” he grinds, “I don’t know why the hell you’d think I’d be _lying_ about something like that.”

“So you’re saying,” James pronounces, easy, “you’d still be in Goodsprings- yah know, if Legion’d never tried to stick their dicks into the same hole as NCR.”

“I didn’t-” he huffs, blocking out an ancient conversation, “I don’t _know_ that. I didn’t join because of the _Legion_. I joined to protect my family from everything- all of the shit out there _like_ them. So if it wasn’t autocratic slavers, it’d be something else, right? It’d just keep coming without-” and he turns his head, the way of east. Knowing in the distance, past a billboard, over a river, were the type of monsters that pre-War comic books could only illustrate on slick pages. Boxed in tiny windows. “It never stops. It won’t. Ever.”

In comic books, there was always this gaudy hero, too. Someone who _could_ save everyone, save the town, or the planet; but who the fuck would want to save _this_?

These people. The ones left behind after the Great War. Who crushed the skulls and bones of others beneath their feet to walk down broken roads that weren’t meant to be walked anymore.

Maybe they just didn’t _deserve_ saving.

Kendall holsters his pistol, eyelids shutting out the view. The heat bakes their skin dry. “What’s your last name, James?”

It’s kind of trivial, a fact he hadn’t thought about until recent when he’d overheard a soldier refer to him as _Mr. Six_. So he’s surprised when James takes a second to speak up.

“It used to be Diamond.”

Kendall opens his eyes, “Used to…?”

And James doesn’t penalize him for his extra question, just keeps watching him. A searching gaze. “I didn’t want it anymore.”

That only makes him all the more curious. But he won’t push the story. For now. Even if he can’t help but watch back, take in the angle of James’ jaw, the weight of hazel, the eyelashes that frame it. The hue of sunburn and old injuries. Taste the syllables on his tongue, of who all of that belongs to, of “James Diamond.”

Kendall likes it, likes the shape of it and how it fit so- absolute. James _Diamond_. Flawless.

Kendall _doesn’t_ like the reaction it summons, the sting in James’ eyes and the wince in that jaw. James, _Courier Six_. Haunted. But still…

He’s about to apologize- knows James wouldn’t want that, though. An acknowledgement of his slip to be said out loud. Instead he says, “Your turn.”

For “…What’s your favorite color?”

It actually makes his lips curve, up, some. “Serious?” And there’s nothing to signify he’s not. Kendall considers, “Blue. I guess,” the color of the sky and his mom’s eyes. A favorite shirt he used to wear when he was younger. Decides, “Same question?”

“Purple,” is stated, sure, followed with, “You have friends in the NCR, Kendall?”

_Friends_. Wow. “There’s no one in the NCR I’m closer to than Reyes,” he words, careful.

“But he doesn’t know.”

And his breath hitches, subtle, the whistle of wind shooting by his ear. “I don’t wanna talk about that.”

“Because?”

“Because it doesn’t _matter_.”

Kendall asserts that, concrete. He’s convinced _himself_ of it, absolutely, because, in the Wasteland, why the fuck _would_ something like- it’s so _purely_ unimportant in comparison; so, why couldn’t _James_ just accept that. Why, instead of nodding or agreeing or _understanding_ , did he have to pin him with this strange look-

And move on, pass the deck to him with, “It’s your turn.”

Making Kendall narrow his eyes, but wrack his brain for something…heavier. It’s petty and almost subconscious. Helps override every other thought thundering there, “Why’d Benny want you dead?”

But it churns inside of him how, under James’ scrutiny and immovable expression, he still doesn’t feel like he has the upper hand here.

“He didn’t.” And James rummages for a cigarette in one of the utility pockets on his belt. Clarifies, “He wanted me out of the way.” With a shrug, “Nothing personal.”

Yeah, that shrug says it perfect; maybe for Benny it wasn’t personal, but for James?

Kendall couldn’t blame him. There weren’t a whole of people who were granted the opportunity to avenge their own…murder. Very thoroughly attempted murder. Because James should still be in that grave, in Goodsprings, if the rules of, yah know, _life_ had applied.

How defiant could one person be?

“Out of the way of what? You were a package carrier,” he raises, perplexed, “Benny was Head Chairman.”

And…oh. There it is. Kendall’s _encroached_. Where the answer James has on his tongue won’t make it out unscathed. Has to be _encrypted_ , before that, morphed into something that reveals little and drives Kendall nuts _a lot_.

James uses the motions of lighting his cigarette to delay. That same silver engraved lighter. He keeps it in his hand, staring down at it. Flips it open, flips it closed, flips it open, closed, open. The hinges squeak quiet.

“The job I was hired for - the one that brought me to the Mojave? It was from House. For me and six other couriers.” Open, closed. “I had the package Benny didn’t want delivered.”

Kendall takes that in. At least seeing the connection, now. “So it was just…what, bad luck?”

James exhales, a laugh in the shape of the smoke he’d inhaled on his last drag, and that’s it.

And curiosity wins over. “What was the package?”

“Sorry, Customer Confidentiality agreement.” Yeah right. “You’re out of questions anyway, and we need to get moving.”

The lighter’s stuffed back where it belongs.

“What about- can you just tell me what happened to it? If it ever got to him?” Kendall barters, too hasty and he thinks he’s messed up.

“No.”

“No… you can’t tell me? Or no it didn’t?”

James meets his eyes, “No. It hasn’t.”

And Kendall doesn’t favor his word choice.

He grabs his stuff and follows after him, anyway.

* * *

 

“The plants kill,” Kendall reads the warning sign, all caps and graffitied-sloppy, aloud and monotonous.

Of _course_ the plants kill. God. Why would they not. Why should a mission be as simple as walking into a vault and grabbing what you needed. That’d be ridiculous.

It’s hard to focus on the sign, though, when the rest of the entrance was so… _green_. Kendall’s pretty sure he’s never seen anything more lush or alive. It’s astounding, but it’s also kind of incredibly creepy and unsettling.

He could almost picture now that all of the leafy-life growing from Vault 22’s entrance was reaching out like claws. Infective. Itching to coil around whatever it could get its vines on.

He could swear all of it was watching him, too. Eyes embedded in the membrane of its growth.

Kendall voices that, as James moves to squeeze and duck inside, between a cranny where the vault’s door is jammed open, stuck in position via rust and foliage. He holds thick vines out of the way for Kendall to do the same.

And how could the interior _not_ be worse?

With greenery slithering up poles and pipes and sprouting from dirty crated-floors and out of things that have no way of supporting their existence. Fungi peeking from scatterings of soil and the walls.

He doesn’t even want his _boots_ to come into contact with this shit, winces at the fluttery crunch of it under his feet. At the caress of it, calf-high of his pants.

Kendall _almost_ (almost) wishes they were back in the Vault _3_ , then. At least there were _people_ there. Kind of. Here in 22, the abandonment, the blatant pressure of it, is more stifling than any vault walls could pull off solo. Conspiring with a thousand fucking noises - bangs and whirs and clicks and air ducts - a thousand corners that feel like there’s something around them, waiting impatient.

Surrounded by this susurrated scream of history, omnipresent, but, you can’t catch their drift.

His eyes dart, from its long hallways, confusing amount of entrances and exits that look the same the same the same to thickly-spread remains, unbosomed details that read the narrative of life that used to thrive here below the surface.

James is conquering the maze, occasional interludes of robbing the dead, checking his Pip-Boy. Regarding what few terminals that still hum contain in its files.

3rd-level down. “Food Production” illuminating dull on a sign. The vault wants to show its hand.

James hisses out his name, as he gears to tread reluctant through this dense patch of verdure that comes up to his waist, stretched fully across the walkway. Tells him low, “Don’t move.”

It doesn’t matter. There’s already this inhuman shrieky growl at his toes, running his blood cold, and a _plant_ starts fucking _moving_. James’ revolver goes off loud behind him in tune with Kendall’s ass hitting the floor.

“What the hell-” he breathes, “James what the hell is that-”

That. _That_. What was _suppose_ to be human. But complementary to the vault’s decor: _plant_ , or. Skin green, bleeding green, spores on its back-

“Think that was our first cordial welcoming from a former resident.” The revolver clicks and spins.

Kendall looks at him, appalled, “Funny, James.”

“If you have a fucked-up sense of humor, totally. Which, hey-”

“Don’t-” he turns back to the- whatever. His question borders on a demand, “How would you even know?”

“Reading Is An Adventure That Never En-”

The terminals.

Those terminals stacked with ancient data that survived uncorrupted. Experiment notes with too much scientific jargon to fully understand, security reports that grow terrifying, medical updates that follow a spreading virus infection.

A virus. Which didn’t equate to residents morphing into _plant people_.

James is messing with a locked door, a level ironically-marked “Pest Control.” Kendall stares down at the last one of those _things_ that swiped at them, fast and agile.

Experiments. Yeah. Experiments, though, equated to plant people, plenty.

“They’re human.”

“No, they’re not. They _used_ to be,” and James sighs, giving up on the door, “They died a long, _long_ time ago.”

He shakes his head, righteous anger, “Why would Vault-Tec allow something dangerous like that to be fucked around with down here? People died. _All of them_ died- and over a _stupid_ experiment-”

How could they have not figured, _accounted_ for the possibility- even if, hell, who could’ve ever _envisioned_ this? Some fungus undeterred by the death of its host. It was fucking horrific, and _Vault-Tec_ sentenced them to it.

A sentence worse than death, stripping away who you were. Stripping away your right to rest in whatever peace could be found once the lights went out.

James has a small furrow between his brow, not as outraged or affected as Kendall believes he should be.

Explains obvious, “ _All_ of the Vaults were experiments, Kendall.”

“Experiments of what? The Vault’s were suppose provide shelter from nuclear holocaust, to keep people _safe_.”

“Yeah,” James cuts out, walks past him towards the room across the hall, “That sounds wonderful in the land of life, liberty, and good ol’ capitalism, Major. I wouldn't use _suppose to_ though; more like _should have_. Sorry to burst whatever- saintly bubble of honor you’ve weirdly created over there, but most of the Vault’s turned out this way.”

Kendall stops walking, just inside the door of a chirpy tech room. It has a mainframe James approaches and hooks his Pip-Boy into. “Like what?”

“Like…bad. They were social experiments. It didn’t _matter_ if people died.”

“But the _U.S. government_ commissioned these-”

“I know, right? Imagine. A _government_ doing evil shit,” James intones, sardonic, disconnects his Pip-Boy after a beep.

Kendall doesn’t try to put meaning behind that, just gapes as he wraps his head around what actually happened in- god, was it 122 Vaults? “All of them?” he breathes, “122,000 people- _all_ of them are- _this_?”

It’s not that he’d been unconvinced of how shit the world could be, or that he didn’t believe people could actually go through with something like…- people could be _monsters_. Repugnant and heartless and sadistic. He’s seen it in every niche of the Wasteland. But that was _expected_. When a stranger walked up to you, now, you _expected_ them to have bad intentions. Or, at the absolute least, you humored the thought.

Everyone who’d entered these Vaults in 2077 had _trusted_ their government and Vault-Tec to keep them and their families safe _implicitly_.

To find out Vault-Tec didn’t even _try_ or _care_ \- the opposite, even - was fucking devastating.

The walls around them echo the sentiment, and James’ mien softens some at the look that must be on Kendall’s face, still tense, “Give or take. A couple Vaults turned out okay, I guess. They were all different. People escaped, some still live in theirs.”

“They were _trapped_ -”

“We’re all _trapped_ , Kendall,” James refutes, corrects in a hard voice, tired, “In a Vault, out there: all of us are stuck in the fallout of the morons that came before us. The only difference is that _we_ don’t have a thirteen-ton door that leads the way out and a well-spent _half-of-our-lives_ thinking, eventually, everything was going to go back to how it was Before,” then he stops, realizes, “Well. Maybe the latter can be said of _most_ of us, anyway.”

He feels sick, misses half of James’ admonition, muffled under the thick cloak of panic. The barbed overwhelming ambush of what he’s never wanted to admit suddenly choked out from where its built and- it bursts, a rasp from his lips. “I don’t wanna be trapped.”

He bites his tongue, then, wishing he could destroy the linger of those words in the air, watching their feet when James pauses beside him. “I know.”

And “Come on, we have another Vault _rescue_ mission.”

It’s enough that he lifts his eyes, eager to wipe that conversation away. Confused, “Down _here_? Who?”

“One of you guys’ researchers. Keely. I’m not the first Hildern’s conned into making this trip.” An explanation takes them down to the tunnel of a cave, burrowed into and through a wall. Dripping the smell of mildew and inhabited by giant mantis’ they pick off to reach a niche of a gaped opening. Fog lingers, lethargic, blinds to a ten-foot radius.

The form of someone draws itself from it, comes into focus, squatting there.

“Not the type of place I usually pick up women, but,” James flashes teeth, “hi, how yah doin’?”

The ghoul sighs, voice as ragged as her skin, “Took your sweet time. NCR?”

“Would it break your heart if I said no?” eyebrow raised, “Girl with the accent asked me to find you.”

“Ah…Angela. She’s such a dear. Not like that pompous little _pedant_ she works for,” she grumbles, bringing herself to her feet with some trouble, a hand braced on her knee, “But that’s neither here nor there. These plants are out of control; I have a plan we could use to deal with them.”

_We_?

James echoes that, eyes narrowed sarcastic, “Sorry, _we_?”

“Didn’t speak clearly enough for you, sonny? You and your NCR pup here” _what_ \- “are gonna help me finish what I’ve started, and none of us are leaving until that happens either way. Place is locked down. Quarantine.”

“‘Don’t waste time getting to the point, do you?”

“ _Quarantine_?” Kendall interjects, “For what?”

“I won’t allow what happened here to be kicked into the literal long grass, and as far as I know those spores are toxic to humans - as in I suggest the both of you saddle up and help me, lest you’d rather spend eternity even uglier than me, pretty boy.”

Kendall chokes, “James-”

“Don’t- don’t start panicking-”

“The _hell_ I’m not gonna panic-”

“Hyperventilating is the opposite of practical in this situation, Major- and _I_ do not _do_ ugly, so, Miss, whaddaya need done?”

“Time is obviously of the essence, so I’ll be brief,” Keely instructs, apathetic to their probable _demise_ , “I’ve pumped the Vault full of highly-flammable gas. Once ignited it should destroy a vast majority of the spores: so find a vent and ignite it,” tacks-on as if subsidiary, “I suppose you’ll want to survive the resulting blast as well.”

Not panicking. _Not_ panicking.

“‘Sure you don’t want us to torch ourselves for your amusement while we’re at it?”

“That would be pretty funny, wouldn’t it? Oh, don’t look at me that way- I’m sure you’ll be fine,” more than unconvincing, “Sealing yourselves off in a room might do the trick. Meet me on the 2nd level when you’re through.”

Kendall inhales, exhales, watching Keely rush back up the path they came from. “If we get out of this hellhole, know I’m not going anywhere with you _ever_ again.”

James gusts, “Really, Major. Don’t use up what could be your final breaths on another lie.”

“That is the _farthest_ thing from amusing right now,” he snaps, trodding off. Fumes, “I saw a vent over where you nabbed the research data. Let’s just hope that door shuts faster than _thermobaric explosions_. Idiot.”

James sing-songs, “Right behind you, Captain Crepehanger.”

“I don’t know what that _means_. _And shut up_.”

“It means you’re a downer.”

“A _downer?_ ” Unbelievable- Kendall snipes, “James, I don’t know if you grasp the situation we’re in right now, but there is no _downing_ this. This is- this is so _down_ already I couldn’t possibly _down_ it anymore, _alright_?”

“Kendall-” and his face is between two hands. Leather lining his right cheek, a roughened palm scratching the left. “You _can_ go wait with Keely-”

He pushes away, “ _Forget it_ . If you wanted a repeat of last time then you should’ve had your _science friend_ tag along-”

“Not the point. How’m I suppose to get this done while you’re having an aneurysm over my shoulder?”

“ _This_ is a normal reaction, James. Your _lack of_ is the unhealthy one. Let’s just clear that up.”

“Because I know I can pull this off. Ninety-something percent. Out of all the colors I could turn, green is not high on my list of preferences,” James translates, “I’m not freaking out equals _you_ \- probably- shouldn’t be freaking out.”

“No offense, but your track record in that area isn’t very compelling,” and they come up on a vent, viewable from the mainframe room. Kendall grabs James’ shoulder, searching for conviction, “I want out of here, James.”

And he smiles, ambiguous, “Your wish is my…strong recommendation. _Sir_.”

“If only that,” releasing him.

“Now _I_ strongly recommend,” James tilts his head to the left, “that you get inside that room, and be ready to close the door.”

Kendall frowns at the grenade in James’ palm. But he nods a ready, in place. It’s hard to keep from activating the door’s switch, anticipation in his fingertips.

Causes him to almost close it too soon, right as the frag’s pin is pulled and leaving James’ hand, rolling out of sight - but the rocking force on the other side of the reinforced metal, once it slides to a smooth shut, still stumbles James into him when he stands from his crouch, collides Kendall’s head with a control panel of knobby lights and switches.

“See?” James’ laugh is in his ear, “No sweat.”

“Swell. Maybe all my relief is just stifled under your _elbow_ in my _ribcage_ \- get off.”

“Saved your life and you’re _still_ whining.”

“I don’t know what book you’re reading from,” Kendall huffs, rubbing where it stings on the back of his head, “but saving someone from the line of fire _you_ pushed them into? Doesn’t count.”

“Details.” James brushes off, re-opening the door to the stinging odor of burnt earth. It almost overwhelms the pungency of stale air and the vault’s leafy poison. Smoke tinting the hallway subtle.

Kendall pulls the face wrap of his uniform up around his nose, speech muffled as they walk. “Just find that-” catches himself, “Just find Keely so she can unlock the entrance.”

It wouldn’t be soon enough. Less of those plants didn’t make the place any more pleasant to be in, and it didn’t get rid of the eyes he felt on his back.

Keely’s sitting at a desk littered with debris and a pallette of soil and claret, making use of a functional terminal in the midst of it. He’s hoping she doesn’t have another task for them that borders on ludicrous, even more after she greets them with too much surprise.

An, “Oh. Good, you survived. I was beginning to think you hadn’t,” attention back to her work, “Well. With the spores no longer a problem, all that’s left is to ensure this never happens again-”

“Truly fantastic- will that take long?”

Kendall elbows James, even if he’s thinking the same. His mom taught him the unsightliness of back-talking old ladies, ghoul or otherwise. A ghoul who _was_ just trying to do something that would save people in the long run.

James smiles tight, plucks, “As much as we’d love to stay and chat science, I mean.”

“Should’ve known a youngin’ like you would be in a hurry. As I was saying, all that’s left is to erase the research that led to those abominations. I’ve set up a connection to the Vault’s backup system from here, so deleting the files will only take a moment…”

And Keely trails off, a thicker tension coming between them when realization hits.

“That’s strange,” she says, the barest hint of accusation, “The system claims the files were recently copied to an external source. You two wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

James doesn’t clam up the way Kendall does. So he’s expecting him to just hand it over. Because it’s not worth it. Keely was right - the research Hildern wants, and why he wants it: that’s what led to the skeletons here, the glut of green under their feet. Irresponsibility with quixotic visions.

The OSI could end up following the same path. Only this time the result wouldn’t be caged.

He can’t expect James to risk that for the NCR, not when he probably doesn’t give a shit about their future in the first place.

Kendall wouldn’t either. But apparently that only makes one of them.

James face is polished, barely creased. The perfect combination of incurious, ignorance, and fronted confusion. “Listen, I’m sorry you lost your data- stuff, but I came here to confirm your well-being and you’re _kind of_ overstaying that welcome.”

And Kendall tries not to stare. And he tries not to think too hard about how quickly he chooses to back James up. Attempting to mollify the doubt that still rests in the mangled dips of the ghoul’s expression. Moderates, “That’s not my field, but I can put in a word at McCarren, if that’ll help.”

Keely sighs, rough in her throat, “Maybe it could. It’s possible Hildern heard of your coming here. Sent someone to swipe the data while you posed as mantis bait,” presses a couple more buttons on the console, “Nothing to be done about it now. I can delete what’s here, and that’s done.”

She stands, “I’ve unlocked the door so you’re both free to run along. It pains me to say it but I wouldn’t have made it out of here without your assistance.”

“Our pleasure,” James gives, off. Starts backing away towards the exit.

Kendall nods, more than anxious to decode James’ reasoning. “Ma’am.”

“Please tell Dr. Williams she has my thanks,” is his dismissal to catch up to him, and he does. Ready and willing to ‘quid pro quo’ about anything to figure out _why_ -

But James’ eyes prevent him. Not with a glare or warning, or a plead.

They’re just. Dead. Shut off. Staring ahead.

And they stay that way. Casual detachment, from where they shove out of Vault 22, where Kendall takes a moment to breathe in actual air. All the way to a small house on the outskirts of Westside.

It’s cleared, made sure to be empty, before the entrance is half-barricaded with a ruined loveseat.

There’s a bed-frameless mattress, king-sized and bare, flopped in the corner through one of the doorways. Kendall flips it, while James unloads his equipment.

He taps a zipper pocket, labels it, “Water,” taps another, “food and stimpaks,” and a pouch on the side, “ammo,” before straightening, “if you need anything.”

Kendall observes, reposed against the wall, edge of the nearly flattened mattress.

The cool of James’ features were straight out of a poster advertising the dangers of espionage, or one telling you to “ _join up with your local commie watch!!_ ” And he didn’t like it. Maybe he would actually prefer that glib grin of his.

Missing that slippery dryness to his words, the equivocation, was easy when there was a blank slate that replaced it.

“Thanks. I can take first watch-” already getting a head shake.

“I got it.”

James falls in next to him, pistol planted beside him, and Kendall knows better than to argue with someone who volunteers for patrol.

He also knows better than to ask the dreaded question, ever; a.k.a. the dig your own grave question. But he does.

“You okay?”

Torn between meeting those empty eyes or focusing on the cut James was rewrapping on his hand.

There’s no real way to soften the impact of that inquiry, though.

James opens his mouth, sharp, before he closes it. Reroutes, “Yeah. Just thinking,” he leans back, “Go to sleep.”

Kendall scoots, floor stabbing into his shoulder blades through the mattress as he reclines, pillows his head against James’ thigh.

He tosses his beret the direction of James’ pack. Asks the view of the ceiling and the underside of a jaw, “…do you...do you know anything else about the Vaults?”

There’s a sigh above him, the movement shifting muscles he can feel. “Forget the vaults, Kendall.”

“I’m sure people’ve tried,” he mutters. “Probably a lot better shit to dream about than the failures of human experimentation.”

“They didn’t fail.”

Kendall blinks, a bitter sting in his chest, “The mass murdering of civilians doesn’t feel like success to me.”

“So what?” James says, voice tight, “Vault-Tec got what they wanted. That’s how experiments _work_.”

“Sure. Watching people die’s been an educational experience for me, too.”

Hesitation stills the air, until James speaks. More unsure than Kendall thought he was capable of. “Logan says- failed experiments aren’t a thing. That learning what doesn’t work _lights the way to greater knowledge_ or- just another step to figuring out the world. Pretty sure it was something that sounded that lame anyway.” And Kendall doesn’t need to ask. Logan. The _science friend_. The idealist James seems to hold high.

He looks away when James looks down. When he concludes, with little faith, “Error is instructive.” Sounding more like he’s telling himself that.

Kendall bites his lip, staring down a bullet hole in the wall.

Heeds, “‘That why you lied to Keely?”

It’s more than a couple seconds before James snorts, quiet. “Guess that would’ve been a good excuse.”

His fingers brush the tips of Kendall’s hair, absent.

“Then why?” Kendall breathes, eyes shutting. Mind and body thrumming curiosity, a yearn that tugs.

He listens to James take a breath, hanging on it.

“I’ll wake you up in a couple hours. We have four ‘til sunlight.”

The touch disappears.


	8. It Helps To Keep My Conscience Clean (The Ends Will Justify The Means)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Fine. Do tell, then, I’m honestly intrigued: who else is forced to suffer the Whimsical Adventures of Courier Six.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand another one bites the dust. Pow-pow.

* * *

There’s a stiffness in his neck. A chunk of muscle carved of wood.

A sliver of sunlight that cuts across his eyes. Aimed precise.

And too bright.

He squints, violent heat parched deep into his pores, back marinating in sweat. Winces at the rough aridity on his tongue as he raises, painful on rusted joints.

His divinely-bestowed sanction for allowing himself to rest so lengthily.

No- for _James_ allowing-

James hadn’t woken him.

And it’s-

Fuck…late morning. Had to be, the room set aflame. Enough to cast spotlights for dust stagnant in the air.

This room of golden fire that James wasn’t in.

Kendall stares out at the hallway; mere to some curling hideous wallpaper. Sickly yellow. Takes in the uneased rhythm of wind cutting through the house’s rifts, shuffling, a muted clang.

There’s a _more_ than negative chance he’d slept through an attack- right? Their supplies all still where they’d left them. The abstract art of freshly-gifted blood severely lacking.

Yeah. He grabs a weapon.

Keeps a hand on it as he skirts the wall towards the central space, where the wealthiest folks used to obsess at TeaVee's-  those boxes antennaed like insects, faces like flashier eyebots. Screens that painted who-knows-what in their heads; propaganda, advertisements for happiness, mini-stories that whisked them away.

No one is watching a TeaVee around the corner. No one is being whisked away.

James presents kneeled. Shifting through a pile of magazines nested inside the hollow of a cabinet.

Kendall holds his sigh. Purposefully steps on a newspaper that preens a faint _Las Vegas Sun_ as he advances the doorframe, alerts a presence he’s sure James was already aware of.

His proclamation is critical. Thick with disuse. “You haven’t slept.”

James pilfers something small and reflective.

Shiny.

“Ready to go?” Words clipped; a telltale that a nothing’s changed in the span of Kendall’s unconsciousness.

“James,” he pushes, “it’s a long trek back- and,” releases that afore-suppressed sigh when James stands to face him, “You look like shit.”

“I’d take offense if such a thing were possible.” Airily, but empty.

Kendall bites the inside of his cheek, vows “If you pass out along the way I’m leaving you there.”

Really, though, it was getting a lot…disquieting. He was starting to _hate_ the flat of the usually-simmered hazel of James’ eyes. _More_ that he doesn’t get the mainspring of it.

Kendall wants to shake him back alive. All along the route to McCarren, of which James manages _not_ to pass out on. All as they walk through its gate, to the terminal building and into Hildern’s cramped nook of the place.

James enters the office, the insincerity of the director’s voice ringing from within. Kendall breaks off. He recognizes Dr. Williams from around.

“He found her.” He reassures, towards the fine-tuned expectancy in her glances towards the office.

She looks up from her work, “Oh, I-” then laughs, short and delighted. Explains, “Keely called in not too long ago.”

And her voice lowers, slightly conspirative. Kendall’s reminded of the accent James mentioned now. She has one of those thick _twangs_ , the kind brahmin ranchers always seem to speak in. The kind that wangles to tweak words undebatably genuine.

It’s almost weird coming from a Lab Coat.

“You should’ve heard the Director; Keely wouldn’t let him finish a sentence, just reamed him out.” With a grin, “Never seen his face so red and twitchy.”

Kendall smiles back, amused for her.

“Glad she’s okay.”

Williams warms. “He has my deepest gratitude. You too, with your assist- if you-… Thanks for keeping her safe.”

* * *

 

“James-…James!”

Kendall catches up to him cutting through the cluster of tents, calls out incredulous. Soldiers stare, the renowned Courier Six. The celebrity with the black fire in his eyes and a Major on his tail.

“Come on,” close to a plea, “You’re pushing yourself for no reason. I have a cot here. Use it or- crash on the fucking floor for all I care.” Kendall wants to sound casual about it, but, “I don’t know what’s eating you, but this is insane. Take a break, man.”

He doesn’t care if he’s basically a holotape of his mother telling him to “stay safe out there” every time he leaves again or to “eat more mutfruit” over “all that phony food,” at this point. James going out there that exhausted- it’s-

He veers away from making it sound like a command, “Please. If you want, I mean.”

What he doesn’t veer away from is the expression James is leveling him with. When he narrows his eyes, loaded, the first flash of _something_ since the Vault.

Ominous contemplation. Intent.

Kendall regards him wary.

When he evokes, too calm, “You don’t wanna be trapped, Kendall?”

And Kendall says nothing, a furrow in his brow.

But it’s a confusion that bursts. Wide open.

Assassinated like a First Recon target. Splitting fragments of skull. The opposite of a slow, dawning comprehension that blooms like the sunrise or comes together as one of those jigsaws that always seem to be scattered somewhere in an NCR barrack, unfinished.

It’s a confusion that cripples to static. A maelstrom frozen there, gelid. Frozen through James crashing his lips into Kendall’s, harsh and significant - frozen through Kendall tasting James on his tongue, sudden and unforgivable.

Frozen while Kendall almost stupidly melts into Courier Six. Into the fingers secured at the back of his neck.

Those bruised and bloodied fingers.

Then- that’s when it’s a confusion that is _gone_. Carcassed. Can’t exist over a gasp and a “what the _hell_ -” from the sidelines and the deciphering of what James had _meant_ -

It’s the immediate and absolute constricting of his throat, the ragged, ripped lacerations to his lungs, the shake that threatens to wrack ferociously unbridled down to his fingertips; James withdraws before Kendall has even relearned how to move again.

Through the ringing panic, James’ eyes are still void. Without apology. Through the suffocation, Kendall notes how sorely it reflects the damage James has just done to the meticulously-patched framework- to the eight years of keeping clandestine, fucked hard in only three long-fucking-seconds.

The renowned Courier Six. With New Vegas in his hands and a fallen Knight at his feet.

He wonders what his own face must look like. When that courier strikes low, preaches, “You’re welcome.” When that courier leaves him there, in the cratered aftermath, the middle of reactions he’s worked _so hard_ not to ever, _ever_ see.

Good thing Kendall was so fucking great at convincing himself shit didn’t matter.

Or, maybe- maybe those reactions would feel like a Saturnite fist shoving itself down his throat. Maybe they’d feel like icy fingers trailing the notches of his spine. Maybe then he’d be deciding that, those reactions, behind his back and silent, were a thousand times worse than the ones he’ll ever have to deal with to his face.

Yeah. Kendall was lucky it didn’t matter. Because, instead of all of that, he was seething.

No one had warned him freedom was so condemning.

* * *

 

Kendall can barely remember how old he was when it happened.

That’s how inconsequential it was. How anticlimactic.

Ten, eleven. Nine. Who knows. He was a sprout. Only just inching into thoughts of how someone’s laugh could make you feel, or possibly how interesting bodies were to look at. Whatever.

Thing was, Goodsprings didn’t make it easy, figuring out the type of people who could get under your skin. Make you feel something more. He’d grown up with most of the residents, who were older, or too much like family. When traders passed through, they were usually grubby. Beady-eyed and curt. Got their caps and moved on.

But there was one. This caravan headed by a guy, oozing charisma with sleeves that stretched tight around his arms. Bartered the price of crops with Kendall’s mom in a silky baritone.

Caught him staring and-

“ _Hey kiddo._ ” With this _lopsided smile_.

Whatever Kendall had done next probably didn’t make top-tier of his moments of eloquence. Because, if he’d played it cool, his mom wouldn’t have made the teasingly nonchalant comment of, “Well he was pretty handsome, wasn’t he?”

Yeah, okay- that’s not true; maybe she would have. His mom was all-seeing like that: a trait that’d skipped him and went straight to Katie.

He’d groaned at it, either way, pulled the raggedy knit-hat on his head down over his eyes so rough he’d heard a couple threads tear. Embarrassed in a typical _mom-don’t-talk-about-my-feelings_ fashion.

And, then? Life went on in Goodsprings.

Why would it have ever occurred to him that some assholes wasted time caring about what _other people_ liked? That it _bothered_ them another person’s heart might skip a beat at a charming smirk or the sharp angles of a torso?

That it might stir fire inside of him when coarsened fingers brushed the hollow of his collarbone, the inside of his thighs.

What was the point?

That was the lesson he hadn’t learned yet. Even this long after joining the NCR.

What he _had_ learned hadn’t come instant. It wasn’t a fact stated, or a line in a manual; more something that uncovered itself gradually. Ingrained itself into him as a fucked-up propriety, a code of conduct.

Started with words. Said casually in conversations overheard or in rowdy exchanges.

 _Cock-knocker_. _Nellie_. _The sod_.

“ _Shut your fucking man-pleaser_ -”

“‘ _You the Lieutenant’s personal clearing barrel now Dean-o_?”

“ _Hey Knight tell your bum chum to get his ass over to distribution-_ ”

“ _If you two are done sucking each other’s dicks, how about-_ ”

And it ended with him keeping his mouth shut. Permanently. Realizing a piece of who he was, was a deeply-rooted insult.

It’s not that he tried to make up some Susie, Mary or Riley back home that everyone else seemed to have, waiting for them. Some great girl, or strings of one-hit wonders on the side.

That silence is what got him through eight years of watching what happens when you _weren’t_ discreet.

Even knowing it was more common out here than people cared to think - people, meaning the ones that gave a shit, anyway. Accommodating some far-fetched supposed pre-War mindset.

Of course it was, though. A warm body was a warm body, no matter what was between its legs. And, in the Wasteland, everyone grabbed and clawed for escape where they could get it.

Then’d turn around and spit on you for doing the same.

A lot of soldiers would. Stick their dick in some recruit when women like Boyd turned their asses down. Brutal.

Sneer if they found out you _enjoyed_ it--

Kendall’s stomach churns, in the middle of telling James all of- _most_ of that.

Because, why the fuck not.

He’s liberated now.

And also a fucking coward.

It’s why he’s here, sitting at a picnic table, James lounged across another that’s missing a bench on one side, in the trashed campground of Boulder Beach. Southeast of Camp Golf.

Kendall’s never been so honest with himself in regard to his reasoning for doing _anything_. There was no getting around how it was tearing at him, that shameful certainty that he’s terrified some enlisted will get bored enough to spread the news to the Outpost:

 _Major Knight loves cock_.

As if Ranger Jackson needed another excuse to glare at him these days.

God- and what better way to fuel the flames than becoming _The Courier’s Bitch_?

Admittedly, the dread is overwhelming his fury at said courier. Which is unbelievably impressive; that was _a lot_ of fury to be contesting.

It feels like a betrayal, is the thing, and that’s what he’d like to pin it as over pitiful hurt. But James had _never_ pledged to keep his secret. And Kendall shouldn’t have expected otherwise.

So fuck it. Fuck _everything_.

All that matters is the shotgun underneath his hands, disassembled and waiting for a bolt slide.

Because apparently repairing weapons for pushy jackasses, for _free_ , is what he does.

He doesn’t notice his favorite pushy jackass, who has considerably less bruise-dark designs under his eyes than last week, has been tightly mute, though. Not until there’s a dubious question.

Right. A response. He’d been telling a _story_.

“Why does it sound like you know that first hand?”

Kendall indulges him. “Probably because I do.” Monotone as he can manage to glinting displays of his face shoved steadfast into a bedroll, there behind his eyes.

See, like that, if someone squinted enough, they could pretend.

But he’d never cinched out the most painful bit of it all: how they kept thrusting after you came, or the revulsion on their faces after they saw you _had_.

This time, James doesn’t ask. It’s more of a clinging statement.

“Who.”

And Kendall doesn’t feel bad that he’s about to crush whatever revenge fantasy is playing out in James’ head, if the wound challenge in his tone is anything to go by; someone should really inform him you lose the privilege of giving a shit about certain lives after you single-handedly ruin them.

His jaw flexes, blistered, “Doesn’t matter. Watched a nightstalker swallow him whole three months later.”

The shotgun’s trigger housing pin falls from his fingers. Makes him breathe a curse, wipe his palms on his pants before picking it from a dent in the uneven wood of the table.

_‘Come on- no need to be so formal. It’s Kendall…right?’_

The firearm clacks loud when he slams the barrel back in place. Rattles when he raises up to shove the thing towards James.

“Kendall-” and it’s thrown careless to the side - like Kendall _didn’t just spend fifteen minutes maintenancing it_. And James grabs at his waist, keeping him there.

Kendall fires a warning glance down at him, as James tugs him in between the juncture of his legs. Eyes shining, earnest through the fan of those _stupidly_ long eyelashes-

“I’m sorry,” he insists, and Kendall almost laughs. “I’m sorry. But I’m not sorry I did it. I’m not gonna pretend I’d take it back if I could.”

“Well that’s just great, James; it’s such a comfort to know you’re free of regret. Meanwhile, I’m _fucked_ -”

“And having to hide was- what? _Not_ fucked?” James counters, his grip tightening.

Kendall rips away from it, affronted, air thick in his lungs, “Try _not your call to make otherwise_!”

“Kendall I get that. I’m just-”

“A self-righteous dick? Believe me, _I’ve noticed_.” And he turns his back to him, intent on retreating to the dented scraps of a trailer instead of remaining out here with _that_. Because he can’t fucking stand it. He can’t _stand_ justifications in apologies, and he _definitely can’t fucking stand_ the _look_ on _James’ face_. Like he knows he’s right or- _fuck_ -

“Why should those assholes get a free pass? Why do you give them one?” James calls, an objection that comes across suspiciously pleading. Louder than the volume James usually sticks with, always substituting it in favor of intensity.

But, “You were the one who said things weren’t simple like that. And this has _nothing_ to do with NCR’s integrity. Considering the alternatives-”

James snorts. Deadpans, “The alternatives. That you guys’ new campaign slogan? ‘ _At least we’re better than slavers_?’ Really raising the bar there.”

“Was good enough for you to help us, though, wasn’t it,” Kendall grits. “Some of their shit’s not ideal, but in the process they’re restoring the region. Yah know, and on top of that, a lot of _those assholes_ always had my back when it _counted_.”

“And all of them-” James raises, enunciated, “you can say for sure every single one of them would’ve done the same now?”

Words a bullet that fucking hurts, blunt and fractured.

Kendall can only stare. Begging himself to say it- just say _yes_. _Absolutely_. _Without a doubt_.

But he’s iced, blatant isolation lodged in his throat.

While James sighs. “I know what it’s like living with secrets, Major.”

“Yeah? And whose fault is that?” Mouth twisted, brow furrowed.

‘Whose is yours?”

And Kendall scoffs, small. “That’s not the same- you know it isn’t-”

“Maybe not, but what the hell is loyalty and support if it’s conditional. Man- all this time you’ve been dedicated to people who you’re afraid would abandon you if they knew.” A rueful shrug. “Now you’ll know who won’t.”

Kendall shakes his head, self-contempt.

No. No, what he’ll know now is who _will_.

He runs fingers through his hair, eyes shut, “You don’t-” takes a breath, “You have no idea how much I wanna say I’m _glad_. Alright? James- I can’t.” He drops his hand, watches James’ profile as he stares out over the water. Lake Mead. A sparkle out of place. “If I thought I could handle this-”

“You can.”

“-if I thought I could handle this I would’ve done it years ago.”

And James drops his eyes, down to his hands.

Ponders airy after a chunk of quiet, “Did you ever feel guilty for it?” thumb tracing a path Kendall can’t see across his palm. “Like you were the one who was wrong. Letting people treat you a certain way when they’re doing it- only _because_.”

Kendall presses his lips together.

True or not, that quest for information wasn’t about him anymore. And he realizes, more than anything, he wants to say _just tell me_.

Which is maybe what he’d owed Reyes.

Not because- not because it was important. Kendall was _right_ that it didn’t matter. But maybe it mattered to him. If he’s been wasting time and energy holding his brothers-in-arms at arms-length…then maybe.

With that, he truly fucking hoped James’ other companions could give him more than what he was going to admit next. That, “I can’t promise you anything.”

But James knew that, right?

James, whose lips curve up as he stands and holsters that shotgun, midday sun casting bronze in his hair.

There’s a promise on his tongue when he concludes, “Guess we’ll see.”

And Kendall thinks of his family, his job, Reyes, the people he has to work with. The Mojave.

Of James.

“Yeah… Guess we will.”

* * *

 

Kendall was already pretty sure this…whatever James called them now - missions? jobs? ambitious whims that sated his impulsivity? Any of the above. It was going to be a pain in his ass.

From the second his hands irrationally became damp with sweat, talking James’ way past Lt. Haggerty and into HELIOS One--

He wasn’t fond of HELIOS One to begin with. It felt like a waste of resources and bodies that could be on the front lines- or at least dealing with the other fuck-ton of problems that’d landed and plastered themselves into NCR’s lap.

The more energy NCR had control over, though, the better. The _extremely_ better. Which would justify it _if_ the plant was actually putting out for them.

Which it wasn’t. A thing that apparently James wanted to change.

Kendall doesn’t ask. Again. And he won’t. Yet. But when Lt. Haggerty’s description of their “chief scientist” on site is “the idiot with sunglasses in the back,” he thinks, it’s worth a shot, because how much worse could James do than  _this_?

As in the 1% efficiency the power plant was reportedly running at.

Numbers like that were practically immune to sabotage.

So what of it if James was under the impression he could press some buttons or turn some dials in order to whip this place into shape.

Other than how Kendall had to follow him around while he did…that.

“Okay,” he declares, resignation, “I give. Do you actually know _anything_ about theoretical physics? Or are we just going through all of this trouble for your amusement.”

“ _Woah_ , man. Chill out. Me and Fantastic? Have a theoretical _degree_ in physics, know what I’m sayin’?”

Kendall enters the password on the west reflector control terminal, the password given to them by _Fantastic_ , while James imitates the guy. “ _Don’t_ -” he sighs, “I’m getting a headache just thinking about him.”

“That’s probably your pride taking a blow.”

Probably. But underneath it, he just doesn’t want to accept NCR was _that_ fucking desperate.

What a joke.

“You say that like I have any left.”

“Oh _believe me_ ,” James drags out, “it’s hanging in there. _Dude_.”

Kendall turns from the terminal, arms crossed. Smirks, “Mainframe connection’s reset. You wanna tell me now how you plan to orient the solar trackers and configure the power grid once we get inside the collection tower? Does _any_ of that make sense? Because I’m not fighting my way through a pre-War security system solely to entertain you,” tacks on, “And answer me _without_ sounding like your juiced on Med-X, thanks.”

James holds up a finger, superiority arching his eyebrows, “First of all, Major, I could come up with _much_ more appealing ways you could entertain me. And second- if I ever feel like dicking around with one of NCR’s playthings, it won’t be _this_ level of lame.”

“Sorry- must’ve missed your inauguration into the Super Secret Society of Photovoltaic Specialists, then. _Kudos_.”

“Apology accepted,” he vaunts, reaching into the collar of his armor, “Though I _am_ still a novice- so I borrowed some notes.” A folded square of worn paper spins between his fingers.

Kendall rolls his eyes, reaches out for it until it’s placed in his palm. He’s careful in smoothing its creases, finds the page overwhelmed with numbers and dashes and dots. A scribbled note in the margin:

_The top set of data is what you should feed the computer so it can properly calculate the direction of the required angle-bisector. That will take care of where the heliostats are aiming. Under the line is the coordinates you wanted. If you don’t bring back the Xander Root I asked for a month ago consider your hair a primary target of subversion the next time you decide to crash here. Jerk._

And he stares at that last line longer than he most likely should. Speculations rampant.

His jaw flexes, ignoring them. “Logan- right?”

James smiles, “How sweet. You remembered,” like he doesn’t find any intentions Kendall has for keeping track of names that “sweet.”

The instructions are re-folded and handed back. Kendall shrugs, sardonic, “Sure, uh- allow me to criticize your choice of traveling buddy again- if _Logan_ knows more about working this place than _everyone here combined_ -”

“He’s busy.” James starts towards the tower. “Besides, you got me in here; NCR Personnel _only_.”

A snort. “Like you can’t just wink by now and have whatever you want thrown at you.”

“True.” But it mostly sounds bitter. Not offset by his pompous, “Must be hard to say no to all of this.” Emphasis on this. Specifically a pose-y smolder cast Kendall’s way.

Ridiculous. Is what he wants to scoff.

Instead he clears his throat, eyes shifting, “Ahuh. Too bad that’s totally unhelpful against the minigun-enabled robots that will surely want us dead when we enter that door.”

James’ expressions morphs into one Kendall can more-so agree with.

Maybe not for the exact same reason- just.

 _Robots_ . Not that killing anything felt _good_ , but robots were so…oblivious. They were only doing what they were programmed to. All while having enough sentience to make him _conscious_ about it. Like he was the bad guy in the situation, come to plunder what these things protect with everything they’ve got.

It was stupid, and, also, kind of hard to keep in mind when a shower of bullets and the red of electromagnetic radiation was assaulting the wall you were just standing in front of.

“ _Eat hot lead, you commie bastard!_ ”

Yeah. Robots. He’s sure there’s a _nicer_ recording somewhere, deep down, in its software and circuitry. Under all the steel plating that was _really_ a bitch to get a shot through.

Some enthused line about the _U.S._ of _A._ and an Uncle Sam gets cut off with the clattered crumple of its form, falling over the railing of the catwalk ahead of them - one they cross to follow stairs down and into a corridor. It echoes the more automatic drone of a Protectron “ _scanning- for- hostiles_.”

Kendall checks in a whisper, wary of the five or six turns they didn’t take. Wasn’t keen on the idea of getting lost in a maze of antisocial security guards, “You’re sure we’re going the right way?”

But James turns to hush him, a finger to his lips- the only obstacle that keeps them from touching Kendall’s.

He jerks back.

“Maybe,” James whispers in return, between switching out weapons, “if you weren’t so busy staring at my ass, you would’ve noticed I’ve been following a map.”

“ _Or_. Notice me pushing you into a stray bolt of plasma would humbly look like an inevitable _tragedy_.”

“- _please step into the open and identify yourself. Law-abiding citizens- have nothing to fear-_ ”

“Cool. Now you’ve ruined my elaborate stealth plan.”

“Woe.” And he pushes past. Greets the right-end of the hallway, pistol in hand, peeking around the corner to frame essential-seeming mechanical bits in his iron sights. He catches the glass of the Protectron’s head-dome-thing, shattering on impact.

“ _Continued resis-sis-sis-sis-s-- unlawful-_ ”

Kendall reloads. James’ voice combating the sound of slow-emitted lasers and the bulky movement of a metal anatomy. “Tsk tsk, Major; what kind of civil servant breaks the law?”

“Uh, all of them?” Bullets clunk against the Protectron’s armor.

“Hm. Interesting answer,” James remarks, moving to flank the other side of the doorframe. One more 10mm shot brings the Protectron down, a collapsed display of sparks and scrap.

Poor guy.

“Don’t strain yourself reading too much into it.” Before they’re cutting through two more empty, whirring tech rooms.

An elevator takes them up to the observation level.

Where the mainframe’s a huge mass in the center of the space, a block of computer and blinking lights with a small terminal at its front. They check the area for any more gung-ho Mister Gutsy’s before James brings the keypad down on it.

And crudely stabs at a couple buttons, inept and pretty unfriendly.

“I don’t think it’s talking to me.”

“No? Is it mad you mangled its robo-buddies?”

“Don’t patronize me.” Classic. “It’s not-- _here_ , you try getting something to show up on the thing, mister- _repair_ person.”

That was a new one. Apparently not a title that puts him on speaking terms with the terminal, either, though.

To be fair, wasn’t even looking like it had a choice in the matter. “Not enough power getting to it,” Kendall informs, conclusive. Looks to the right, “Might be something wrong with the auxiliary generator.”

“So…?”

“So,” Kendall squats down next to the engine, sputtering on the sheer power of dedication underneath his fingertips, “There’s a possibility we’re screwed; at least, until we can get our hands on a replacement,” elaborates, “She seems like she’s running fine so my guess it’s the AVR causing the problem, but…there’s no chance in hell there’s still the right tools around here for me to test that.”

James clears his throat. “May I offer an alternative to- whatever you just said?” And Kendall quirks an eyebrow at him. “I mean, I could be wrong but, wouldn’t _that_ put a damper on the whole…electricity-flow concept?”

His eyes drop the direction James points, landing on a chewed-through curve of the power cable, wires exposed fatal.

Well. “That…is considerably less complicated.”

“Meaning, you can fix it?”

Insulting. Kendall removes a glove, “I’ll need something that can cut through this cord clean. Then you’d have…two options: find me a pencil, any scrap metal, and some sort of battery, or- a screwdriver, scrap metal- and I’d need to borrow that fancy lighter of yours.”

Because a hot-ass screwdriver always gets the job done. When you’re like, soldering shit, anyway.

James emits scrutiny, mutiny on his tongue, ‘Sir, yes, _sir_.”

And, “Really,” a challenge on a disbelief-colored grin, “you _have_ to be a bitch about it?”

Met with a breezy, “Why not? You have me fetching like one.”

Wow. Okay. Hypocrite.

The noncompliance? Bordering pathological.

Kendall watches him saunter towards desks and abandoned consoles, up the stairs to sift through maintenance, while he rolls up his sleeves. While he wonders if he’ll ever figure him out.

If his fascination comes from that answer being no.

Because of a line that reads faded inside an old theatre- _Keep your audience guessing!_ Trap them inside their own curiosity, their own need to understand, and they can never leave.

Cutting pliers are thrown onto the concrete floor beside him, next to a pastiche of machine entrails and coppery leads, punctuated by, “Those work?”

“Perfect.”

Kind of. If shoddy results apply. He was working with what he had.

Which, Kendall’s splicing the two new-ends of the wires together when James holds out a hand. That silver lighter tucked into it.

Careful enough that it makes him pause. Held in a way that Kendall can just tell.

“I won’t hurt it.” He assures, easy. Pinky-swears. Knows what it’s like only having an object left to represent something lost. So you can remember it was real.

James doesn’t look worried about that. Expression smooth with, “I know.”

But, Kendall swallows: _No- you don’t. You have no idea._

Takes the lighter, warm-cold against his skin, tucking its flame underneath the tip of the screwdriver until the edge blazes red, a heat that’s able to solder the wire secure.

And James laughs an impressed sigh, “That’s pretty wild, Major.”

“What can I say,” he deadpans, “I’m out of control.”

Irresponsible soldier by day, your personal repair-person by night.

Can practically hear James’ smile widen.

“I’m aware of how handy you are,” evocative, grabbing his lighter back, and raising up. “Good thing you were with me.”

Kendall sheathes the cable, re-plugs it into the generator. “What,” he quips, “your scientist doesn’t know his way around a wrench?”

James’ fingers drum the top of the terminal, a hollow thump while it’s booting-up. It’s too casual of a curiosity when he prys, “Why the sudden interest in Logie?”

 _Logie_? Kendall blinks at him, “I’m not-” reasons, “He’s the only other person you talk about.”

He is poised and leery, strikes as Kendall approaches the mainframe-

“Sure you’re not just concerned with him knowing his way around something else?” eyes turning molten, “You know you’re the only one for me.”

Kendall’s jaw drops, stymied, before he snaps it back where it belongs. Chides, “Stop trying to distract me.”

“Does the truth often distract you, Kendall?”

He bites his tongue, “You can interpret my queries however you want. It’s your answers I’m more interested in.”

“See, if you were honestly interested instead of just waiting for me to say something incriminating,” James counters, propping Logan’s notes up for typing, “there’s a chance I’d be a little more forthcoming.”

Kendall snorts, propping himself against the computer, “Fine. Do tell, then, I’m _honestly_ intrigued: who else is forced to suffer the Whimsical Adventures of Courier Six.”

“James works,” he corrects, the tap of keys timing his pause. Ten numbers or symbols later, he names, “Camille.”

“Camille,” he repeats. “What are they like?”

Without hesitation, “ _Eccentric_. Dedicated,” and with surety, “The coolest girl you will ever meet.”

Kendall regards that, a subtle curve to his lips, “Who else?”

James presses his lips together, “Lucy. She’s…” face scrunching, “blunt.”

And the thought of James being thoroughly and uncompromisingly reamed out for his bullshit drags a laugh from him, hazel flashing towards him and back to the terminal screen at it.

“And Logan?”

“Reads too many word-pages,” James fills-in, sighs, “and- writes _really_ fucking long notes.” Brow furrowed at the paper.

Hearing him describe them, though- Kendall’s sidetracked. Wonders, accidentally out-loud, “You talk this nice about me behind my back?” Turns it into a joke. But.

Amused, “Depends. Do you consider nosy and stubborn a compliment?”

Kendall boasts, “It just so happens, that I do.”

“What about _officious_?” considers, “Or tall? _Very_ green-eyes…adorable when angr-”

“Well now you’re starting to sound fanatical.”

“ _Most_ people call that passionate.”

Most people would’ve ran like hell already.

Lower-lip between his teeth, he trails eyes over the expanse of the room. Hulking pipes and black grey brown construction. Alive with muted clangs and the clumsy drone of production apparatus. Keys continue to click, unpaced.

It’s when his prolonged boredom shepherds him to stare apathetic at Logan’s what-to-do script. An almost-repetitive design of ink. Meaningless digits and lettering, until he focuses in on the “ _coordinates you wanted_ ,” under the line.

It’s formatted familiar. In the same grid reference system they use in the NCR; the standard for military operations and routing patrols. For alerting your location.

Logan’s coordinates are extended pretentiously to a 10-meter precision.

Only the Grid Square ID is needed, though, for him to know, to recognize-

Kendall inhales, steady. Closing his eyes.

 _11S PA 6670 0458_.

That’s… if PA is north of PV-

66 shares a similar easting with McCarran- so that’d be near-

 _Fuck what the hell was even north of the Strip_? No- why did it _matter_? It changed _nothing_ , because-

Kendall exhales, a tremulous gust. Opening his eyes.

To James overtly heeding him, disquiet in that hazel- and- and _god_. _How does he have the audacity to be looking at him like that right now?_

He pushes up off of the thrumming mainframe, those subtle vibrations from it disappearing. Stone cold, still. Around the beating of chest. The subtle quake that ripples through his fingers.

He’s such a fucking moron.

There’s the dubious call of his name, only the first couple of letters, because Kendall cuts it off. Fast.

“Don’t talk,” a demand that borders a plea, breathed.

And by some miracle James listens. Stays silent.

He can’t look at him. Not while--

“Where is it going,” Kendall grits out. Didn’t care if it fell on the side of an order. More focused on how he could have forgotten so easy when his _family_ was balanced on this- whatever the hell this _was_.

He paces, James’ lack of response snapping something inside of him.

Tired of vagary, the sketchiness. Shredded, “ _Where are you sending the power, James_?”

_Tell me how bad you fucked me over. Tell me how effortless it was. Tell me you don’t even feel fucking sorry for it._

Kendall rakes fingers brutal through his hair at the note of James’ placating, “Wait-” joining the pulse in his ears.

Bites a frigid, “Try again.”

“ _Christ, Kendall_ \- at least give me a second to explain-”

And it’s almost whiplash-inducing, how fast he spins towards James at that word. “Explain- _explain what_?” Shouted, incredulous. “You haven’t explained a single-fucking-thing you’ve done this whole goddamn time! In fact- for once, I don’t need you to. Because I already _get it_ ,” he nods, disgust. Willing for the fury to bubble over the sting and regret of something else.

“Awesome,” James scathes, retreating aloof. Like _always_. “Just stand over there and assume shit, then.”

“Yeah? What part of this am I _assuming_ ? How you let me talk your way into this plant, _risk my ass_ to get you up here? All to- god, James, you let me _help you_ fuck me over,” revulsion wretched in his voice. Stomach corroding, vitriolic and sharp; a decay like the touch of acid. “Does that feel good? Does it get you off, knowing you played me right in front of my eyes? That why you brought me along?”

“You know what, I don’t _know_ why I brought you, honest-” spewing mordant, “but it probably had something to do with how fucking oblivious you are towards your Republic’s bastardization of the word _helping_.”

Kendall shakes his head, disbelief. Teeth locked, “You can’t be that arrogant; to think, _what_ , that I’d see the light? Fall prey to your twisted reckoning? For _this_? You expected me to approve of-”

“I’m not asking for your approval, Kendall.” Too composed. Immovable.

An ultimatum drawn in the set of his muscles. Injected into the warning.

He stares back. Numb. Sinking. The phantom pain of a bullet that already has his name on it.

“Fantastic,” he strains, “Glad to hear that’s how you roll. It’s been a pleasure serving you as collateral damage.”

He’s not expecting it to crack the calcified set of James’ mien, the incensed wound of accusation, “Fucking rich coming from the one of us with a hand on his gun.”

Kendall starts, at that, the inflamed awareness of how his nails were scratching into the grip of the pistol hanging from his hip. His fingers more metal-heavy than the frame they were touching.

 _As if he could_ -

He tears his hand from it, the _option_ of it, burned. Both coming up to wipe at his face, curled, as he turns away. Yells a curse.

“Don’t let it be like this- it doesn’t _have to be_ -”

And he remembers, James saying something like that- back- convincing him it wasn’t the stupidest idea ever to let the weight of Courier Six inside of him, let it haunt him for-

His stomach churns.

“On _your_ terms! But not mine, right?” _Why did everything have to be on someone else’s terms for him_? _Fucking always_. “I don’t know how else you want it be, when you’re _stealing_ from the federation I work for- sending one of the most precious commodities of the Wastes- _god knows_ -”

“ _Everywhere_ , Kendall!” And Kendall balks. A quieter confession exhaled from James’ lips, weary, “I’m sending it everywhere.”

But Kendall has his own exhale prepared, exasperation. He digs the heel of his palms into his eyes, the verge of a migraine behind them. “Good for you, James,” has to spell out, leftover desperation in his voice, “You still can’t _do_ that.”

“Why not?” James stresses, “Think about it. For _once_.”

“I _am_. Starting with how there’s a small army down there that gave their lives to get these resources under NCR control. You can’t just- dip your hand into someone else’s shit and distribute it however you want.”

“Maybe the point is that I shouldn’t have to. If NCR has the power to send energy to people who need it you wanna tell me why they’re not-”

“We’re in the middle of a _war_ , James. I’m plenty informed of how overstretched our army is but full region will overload the system-”

“ _Oh boo hoo_ ,” a riled gesture, contempt, “NCR holds Hoover Dam: they have enough fucking energy. Meanwhile, have you ever actually _been_ to Freeside? Westside? Or are you too busy holing yourself up in the Outpost trying not to see anything that’ll fuck up your state of denial?”

“ _Stop_ ,” Kendall drops his eyes, perturbed, “It isn’t my decision.”

“It is now,” James contradicts, like Kendall actually wants any of this to be on his shoulders, “If things go shit at Hoover Dam then you guys still have this as a backup. Minus the part where you’re letting half of the Mojave rot.”

And that’s the part that fucking hurts. Knowing no matter what you choose- or. _Not_ knowing…and then someone dies. Or a lot of someones die. A lot of someone's brother or sister or kid.

Questioning your choice, the difference it would’ve made if you had or hadn’t.

But sometimes following orders is what gets people killed. He’s heard more than one soldier who came out from Bitter Springs imply it, remorse and doubt digging into their skin.

Concession cuts through the conflict spooling his veins tight. “If you don’t want me to,” James raises, with gravity, “then I won’t; I’ll send it to McCarran and the Strip. As long as you understand what that means.”

…They teach you not to hesitate from day one.

So he swallows, barely manages a nod. Says a “fine” that doesn’t make it out of his mouth.

Tries really hard _not_ to understand what any of it means. Something James makes impossible when he steps forward to grip Kendall’s upper arms, looks him in the eye. “No. Mean it,” makes him suffocate on his own words, “Remember _you_ were the one who told me all of this- that it was pointless if we didn’t try to save who we could.”

Kendall searches James’ zeal, removes himself from his touch, “Yeah,” he allows, “…but _you_ remember _this_ ,” tone crystallizing. Recrimination, “You used me.”

Doesn’t stick around for some excuse or a hollow apology, heads up the stairs to wait out on the observation deck.

The wind is heavier out there, 600-feet up. Nothing but the rusted spiral of the ramp leading to the reflector controls to keep you from reacquainting with the ground under less-friendly circumstances.

Seeing the wasteland like this, though. Desert for fucking miles, more miles than he’s ever been unfortunate enough to witness in one-go. And below, where soldiers guard the perimeter. A splay of tents.

Microscopic in comparison.

If everything was so unbelievably small -- wars, politics, treaties, people, conversations, arguments…a death, a smile --

How did they always manage to make you feel the world was ending all over again?

Make all of these decisions feel so monumental, like no matter what you do it’s _wrong_ \- ruining something, rotting whatever it touches.

Kendall hears the door open below, muffled under the rush of air. Groaning metal. James’ footsteps until they’re right beside where he’s bent over the railing, watching a spec-sized fire-gecko dart after a coyote in the distance.

James doesn’t go for the reflector controls. Wraps leather-clad hands around where the railing fades yellow to umber.

Silent for minutes. Three, actually. Kendall counted.

It’s only as loud as it needs to be, starts with, “Logan told me,” hedges, “that you’d probably be able to read the coordinates. That it was some pre-War military jargon the NCR took advantage of.”

Kendall sighs, thumb at his eyebrow. The piping creaks under his weight. “You could’ve just _told_ me.”

“He explicitly recommended I _not_ do that,” he admits, “ _and_ made it very clear I was an ‘airheaded imbecile’ for thinking you should come.”

A mirthless laugh slips through his lips, “You are.”

Not that he wanted to side with this faceless Logan at the moment. The feeling of being conspired against was a bad taste in his mouth.

They had _secrets_. Of course.

“Would you’ve really rather not known?” Something like disappointment in it.

And, “No.” No way. Not when he grasped at every piece of the puzzle when it came to James.

Who moves in front of the control panel, ready to activate the solar arrays.

“One more thing-” Kendall inputs, though, pausing James’ hand. Willing with every syllable, “You _are_ still helping the NCR…right?” locking deep into the color of cognac, when he verifies pronounced, “You want them to win at Hoover Dam.”

One second. Two. “Yes.”

And he flips the switch.

The light of the aimed mirrors blinding intense where they stand, heat magnifying. Apparatus reborn.

There. Now he was _officially_ a traitor.

No matter how you spun it.

James blows air through his lips, hands clasped behind his head. “They expecting you back?” he alludes, light-footed.

And Kendall answers it straight, despite knowing what’s really being asked, “Kind of irrelevant at this point,” sour.

“It’s not,” James disagrees.

He pushes up off of the banister, “Fine. It’s not,” returning clipped between teeth, “What do you wanna hear from me then?” near entreating, “That I’d rather not? That I’d rather be with you?”

Summons a wince at its love-confession-esque delivery.

Fails to phase James. Seemingly. The unflappability of dexterous affectation. “As long as you mean it.”

“…For now.” Kendall undertakes, beginning the circling descent down the ramp.

Until James halts him, grappling his wrist with, “Major.”

Asserting with soft adamance, “Thanks.”


End file.
